


Learning The Language of Flowers

by peachy_chulanont



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anxiety Disorder, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, F/F, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Socialite Victor, Soft Boys, Writer Katsuki Yuuri, eventual milasara, makkachin is the best boy, victorian london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 03:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12267870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachy_chulanont/pseuds/peachy_chulanont
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri is about to graduate Oxford and still hasn't decided what to do with his life. A chance encounter with a stranger in the library changes this - and before long, Yuuri's life is following a path he'd never dared to dream about following. With some unexpected help from Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri navigates life in Victorian London, all while doing his best to learn the language of flowers regarded so fondly by those around him.





	1. The Library

**Author's Note:**

> Did someone ask for an AU set in Victorian London in which Yuuri is an aspiring writer who abruptly finds himself sharing rooms with Viktor, a socialite he knows through a friend? No? Well, I wrote it anyway - with bonus Mila/Sara and lots of interaction with Makkachin ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief implied relationship between Mila and Viktor (don't worry, it's not what it seems)

      Here it was: the culminating week of the last term of Yuuri Katsuki’s four years at Oxford. It was a lovely night; where the days were miserably damp and warm, the nights were a cool respite. Normally, Yuuri was fond of the night sounds drifting through his open window - the distant sound of the streets, the crickets that marked the coming of summer. Now, though, the softest of sounds had him on edge. This essay he’d been poring over hadn’t progressed much at all - was he quoting Shakespeare, there? It sure seemed like Shakespeare… but what play? It was silly that he couldn’t even remember what play he was quoting, and in one of the last papers he’d submit to Oxford professors to boot!

      Rereading the last paragraph he’d written, Yuuri was overcome with a sort of self-loathing that only ever seemed to crop up during self-reflection. What had he even been talking about? What had he hoped to prove? The contempt that bubbled in his throat was almost too much to bear. Who had he been kidding, playing at being a writer?

      The dorm room was all too suffocating, suddenly, and Yuuri forced himself to stand and step away from the cramped desk. In his mind, he heard his sister Mari’s gentle admonitions. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t let himself spiral into thoughts he couldn’t answer. He needed to get out of the small room, needed to go get some air and come back. The paper would make sense, then. Or so he hoped.

      There was less activity this time of year, with the school term coming to a close, and even less at this time of night. The library, Yuuri decided, would be a safe place to collect his thoughts. After all, he had never ventured there out of normal class times; this would be a sort of adventure. Downstairs, he found the halls quieter than even he’d anticipated; there wasn’t a custodian in sight. Yuuri had spent all these years at Oxford always feeling out of place in the massive libraries, always afraid he was being too loud or taking up too much space. It felt almost reckless, going and daring to make an unself-conscious exploration. It was the end of the year, though, and quite deserted. Yuuri pushed himself onward.

      Inside the library, Yuuri found himself once again able to breathe deeply, only to his partial surprise. Books brought him an intense comfort, memories of hiding with Mari amongst the bookcases in the modest library their family kept back home. The musty smell of ink and paper – yes, it was like coming home almost as smelling the minerals in the steam around an authentic onsen would be. And the great room was blissfully silent, too. Yes, Yuuri would just stay here until his thoughts settled, and then he’d surely be able to finish that paper.

      Not far into the library, an odd book caught Yuuri’s eye. It wasn’t just that the book itself was odd - it wasn’t a library book, surely not, with fresh green binding. It was that the book was sitting out on top of a low shelf – but surely an aide working in the library or one of the notoriously waspish librarians would’ve put the book away! It was while he was puzzling over the out of place book that he heard the laugh.

      It was a woman’s laugh - that’s what he noticed first. Yuuri had been around women, of course; there were women at lectures he’d attended, and he’d even gone out with someone’s sister once. He shouldn’t have been so taken aback to hear a woman’s voice. But there was something more – a privateness in her voice that he’d never heard before. A laugh that didn’t belong to a woman who was alone, but one _almost_ alone.

      And there it was - another voice, a man’s, low and stifling laughter, too. The sound of a swift kiss.

      “My hat,” the woman’s voice cautioned, sounding somewhat breathy. Yuuri could see her in his mind’s eye - a dark sprite of a girl, young and wide-eyed and blissfully innocent.

      “Ah yes, it would be a pity to spoil this, hmm?” the man quipped back - there was something in his voice that made Yuuri think that the man really wouldn’t mind mussing the hat, though. He could hear the satin rustle of ribbons coming unfastened; there was another chuckle from the woman.

      “You’re quite good at that, you know,” she said, “perhaps you should become a woman’s maid instead of this nonsense with becoming a lawyer…”

      The man snorted - Yuuri thought perhaps he’d heard something else, but no that man had _actually snorted_ \- and retorted with something like an edge to his voice, “Oh, you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” like he could imagine the woman, Yuuri could imagine the man - not much older than the girl, broad of chest and shoulder and full of the same mirth. His voice had the same foreign accent as hers, though thicker. It was that accent, most likely, that made the whole situation seem even more surreal.

      Yuuri heard the couple kiss again and found his thoughts drifting… lovers lost in a forest of books; it was poetic, wasn’t it? But the soft sputters of somewhat drunk laughter and the sound of kisses brought him back to reality, and suddenly he was faced with the predicament he was in. To stay here any longer, while this scene unfolded out of sight… it would be absolutely unheard of. He needed to leave, but was acutely aware of the need to be completely silent.

      Experimentally, he took a step back… and heard the floorboards creak. Yuuri stopped abruptly, heard the couple on the other side of the bookcase freeze, too. His stomach dropped somewhere in the vicinity of his toes, and a rush of lightheaded anxiety seemed to hit him full-force behind the eyes. All he could think of was the faces of the lovers, the exhilarated laughter melting away into anger directed right at him.

      The man’s voice cut into the silence, loud and accented and ringing in Yuuri’s ears. “Who’s there?” his voice had the edge of self-assuredness to it that Yuuri’s never did; it was the voice of someone who was used to being answered to. Yuuri hesitated all the same.

      “You might as well come out. We can hear you breathing,” the man said, sounding annoyed but not necessarily angry.

      Feeling he didn’t have a choice one way or another, Yuuri forced himself to walk - _slowly_ , really - around the bookcase. Too soon, he found himself facing the couple, who were not at all as he’d seen them in his head.

      The woman was lovely, easily his height with auburn hair pinned fashionably back to show her pale throat and shoulders that were strong and square. In her hand, seemingly forgotten, was that hat she’d been warning her partner about. Yuuri couldn’t help but think that it really wouldn’t have been a shame if it had been smashed a little - he wasn’t one for those garish hats women seemed to always wear to social events. She had dark blue eyes that held the mirth he’d imagined, but not the innocence, and a mouth just slightly too wide with her upper lip more full than the lower. With a jolt of surprise, Yuuri realized he _knew_ this girl - she’d been pointed out to him before; she came from money or had some notable family member. If he was remembering correctly, her name was Mila Babicheva - and she was someone’s fiancée.

      The man with her, though, was not her betrothed, Yuuri was certain of that. He stood like a prince in disguise, a handful of centimeters taller than Yuuri. Even so, he wasn’t broad as Yuuri had imagined; the man had a trim physique apparent even through the rumpled suit he wore. He was older than Yuuri had pictured - surely not older than his mid-twenties, but seeming so with his light, almost silver platinum blond hair and piercing gaze. A foxglove stem had been shoved behind one of his ears, probably by Mila; the intense color of the man’s eyes seemed to render the flower colorless.

      It was that unwavering stare that made Yuuri lose his words.

      “I - I’m terribly sorry,” he was able to stutter after far too long a pause. The couple exchanged a glance, obviously somewhat concerned - Yuuri could smell the distinct silage of gin clinging to their clothes even through the perfume of the somewhat crushed mock orange blossom that was threaded through the man’s buttonhole, and then there was the whole matter of Mila being engaged to someone else. He found himself inexplicably envious of the weight of the glance the two shared. It made him feel intensely lonely, and he resented it.

      “I really am sorry, I - I had no idea anyone was here…” his voice died in his throat, and his vision seemed to blur in spite of the glasses perched on his nose.

      Yuuri had the idea that Mila was saying something in that soft, lilting voice of hers and reaching out as if to touch him; he couldn’t be certain with the waves of embarrassment crashing around his ears. He did the only logical thing - he turned on his heel and rushed from the library. Thankfully, they didn’t try to follow him. Perhaps they were sobering up at the near miss; more likely they were laughing together over Yuuri’s red cheeks and stuttered words. Of _course_ they would be.

 

☀

 

      Yuuri found himself wandering the grounds that night. He stopped by the river to tear his essay into pieces and scatter it into the water. A flurry of ducks mistook the paper for breadcrumbs and swarmed the ruined paper. In spite of it all, a swell of melancholy seemed to bubble up in his chest. He couldn’t help but reflect on the last several years - what was he _doing_? What would he do next?

      He’d enjoyed himself at Oxford, of course. Really, attending school in England was something he was more grateful for than he knew how to manage. Though he was afraid that not all of his studies would stay with him - really, as much as he enjoyed toying with Latin syntax, where would he use it? His real love was English literature, something he never expressed to those around him. What good would it be? The talk that Oxford would soon begin offering tuition for English literature courses was only salt in the wound. If only he’d been born a few years later…

      As he walked, Yuuri couldn’t get the strangers in the library out of his mind. Not Mila with her ugly hat, or the man she’d been with, with his heavy gaze and princely self-carriage. Their closeness, their laughter - it stung Yuuri’s skin with the nagging intensity of a sunburn. There had been so much _life_ to them. Seeing how they existed in a world where things _happened_ \- a vivid, vital place - made Yuuri realize how much of his own life he’d missed out on, keeping a quiet distance from reality.

      It was the way the man had looked at him, that confusion, that askance as to what Yuuri was _doing_ , alone in the library; it was the hot shame of having run off after scarcely muttering an apology that caught in Yuuri’s mind. A childish urge to do _something_ , to show them that he could live a little, too, grasped him. He was young, and it felt like he was egging himself on, to some extent. Yes, there was something he could do. How easy it would be to simply spend his life writing! It was a notion that had danced around his mind since he was quite small, wandering the small family library with Mari by his side.

      A distant family member’s legacy ensured that Yuuri might live comfortably, and Mari was already provided for. There was no real reason why he _couldn’t_ dedicate his life to writing; he could live in London, where a writer ought to live - where things happened. He could wander the streets by day, seeing all while being observed by no one in the activity of the city. In the relative solitude of the city, he could write like he’d never tried to before.

      The idea gave him hope, and it seemed like the endless _what-ifs_ that had always filled his mind were silenced - for the night, at least.

 

☀

 

      It was a few days before he had time to write to Mari and tell her of this development. He reasoned with himself carefully as he wrote to her; Yuuri didn’t want her to think he was selfish for deciding not to come home. For now, Mari was living away from their parents in Japan just as Yuuri was - she lived with a family that they had grown up with back in Japan, working as the governess for the couple’s triplet daughters. Even though they all lived in the same country once more, Yuuri didn’t see the Nishigoris or Mari often at all. He’d been away at Oxford, true, and there was hardly ever time to travel to East Finchley, but Yuuri still felt guilty at every skipped opportunity to do so. It wasn’t that he didn’t love them (something Yuuri was afraid they must think); he simply didn’t know how to push himself to be better when it was so easy to become complacent over their endless love and support - not to mention the ache of homesickness that came from familiar Kyushu accents washing over him or the traditional cuisine that never seemed to hold a candle to his mother’s.

      That’s why this letter to Mari was so important - he was almost certain she’d tell him no, that he needed to do something useful now that he’d graduated, that he should come settle in the comfortable East Finchley community. Even so, writing the letter to convince Mari to give her blessing over his pursuing a writing career was almost _more_ to convince himself. All of Yuuri’s words were chosen carefully, trying his best to convey a boldness, a decisiveness he wasn’t quite sure he really had. It made the most sense, he reasoned, to take at least a year and try his hand at writing - in London, away from what was familiar.

      He sent the letter off with a small parcel containing a box of cigarettes he knew Mari smoked (though she’d steadfastly deny it), a book he thought she’d enjoy, and a small tin of sweets for the triplets. Packed up with his love to the six of his closest family, all there was to do was walk to the post, send it all off, and wait.

 

☀

 

_Yuuri, of course I understand! I want you to have the best start possible in London, and I know even if I could get a moment away from the girls, I’d be in your way. I know you’ll have so much to occupy you here, doing whatever young men do in the city._

_I thought of you today. I’d taken the girls on a walk to the library down on High Road. They get so excited over the books, though I can’t imagine why - you were reading much more than them at their age. Still, it brings back of all the games we’d play in the library at home. I miss those days - but Yuuri, it just goes to show that even then you wanted to be around literature. I’m sure you’ll be successful in this endeavour._

_I’m sending along a book I’m told is a very useful guide in pursuing a literary career - The Art of Authorship. The girls want to know when they’ll see you next - but I have an idea that they just want more of those ginger sweets you sent along. Yuuko and Takeshi send their love; Yuuko is quite adamant in making sure I tell you not to settle for a set of rooms with dirty drains or any signs of mold. Something about getting ill and dying? I think she’s being daft and far too motherly but I agree to some extent - don’t settle, Yuuri. I have faith in you, and I know mum and dad are proud, too. You deserve this._

 

☀

 

      Yuuri read his sister’s letter over and over on the train to London. It didn’t take his anxiety away, but it still comforted him to see Mari’s familiar scrawl looping across the page. Somehow, knowing she had his back seemed more real than the boxes of his books and papers hastily packed and sent along. There had been a pressed amaryllis folded into the letter; Yuuri was a bit rusty on the language of flowers, but he understood this gesture well enough – she was proud of him. Without fail, Mari always seemed so fiercely proud of her baby brother; it was always something that made Yuuri feel a bittersweet combination of comfort and anxiety with the need to live up to the image of himself that lived in Mari’s mind.

      Stepping off the train and giving his address to a cabbie seemed surreal, if only as nerve-wracking as interactions with strangers usually were. He watched the cabman strap his bags to the roof of the four-wheeler cart and marveled a little at the situation. He, Katsuki Yuuri, was moving into rooms in London today to begin his career as a writer.

      The ride to his rooms seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and before Yuuri knew it, his new landlady was prattling off a long list of rules and handing him a key. His lodgings were somewhat cramped yet still comfortable; he felt safe knowing that his landlady was someone familiar - the friend of an older acquaintance he’d met at Oxford. The fact that he could convince himself of having more of a connection than he really did seemed to settle his nerves, at least.

      Yuuri found himself wandering to the window, staring out through the dirty glass into the bustle and smog that was London. The city didn’t even know that he’d arrived; it didn’t care. The thought was both comforting and daunting. In spite of himself, Yuuri’s thoughts drifted from the smoky sky and the distant sounds of traffic to the steely gaze the stranger in the library had set on him all those days ago. _I wonder if he knows that he’s the reason_ …. Yuuri wondered, and immediately regretted it. That man probably hadn’t thought of him _once_ after the incident - Yuuri was silly to believe anything otherwise. Anyway, this was a new chapter in his life, one he wanted to pursue for himself, not make out of spite or self-contempt.

      And he would - that stranger would see, one day. He’d see Yuuri’s face in a newspaper announcing some book of poetry and he’d nod, and he’d know that the timid Japanese man from the library had made something of himself. Yuuri would show him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's not much action in this chapter, but thanks for reading! It helps to set the scene for the rest of the story. We'll be seeing some familiar faces in the chapters to come, so stick around :)
> 
> Flower Meanings:  
> Amaryllis - pride  
> Foxglove - insincerity  
> Mock Orange - counterfeit


	2. Meeting on Oxford Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor have a proper introduction, facilitated by none other than Phichit Chulanont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter I have out of all of them, but there's definitely a lot happening in it.

      Those first few days, Yuuri didn’t stray far from his rooms. London was gray and rainy, and everything seemed to be covered in a kind of silt - even the rain smelled smoky and almost rotten. The streets were crowded and loud; there was a kind of safety in anonymity but Yuuri felt horribly out of place, acutely aware that everyone he encountered was a stranger. Everything was so _close_ \- buildings were close together and pedestrians seemed to have no sense of personal space. Even after returning to the relative solace of his rooms, Yuuri could feel the grime of the city on his person. It set his nerves on edge. He’d look out the window at the dirty light of the streetlamps cutting through the fog and feel like the city was a being in and of itself, watching him in the darkness. It was easier to draw the threadbare curtains closed and stay indoors.

      He threw himself into his writing.  To tell the truth, though, it wasn’t progressing as he’d hoped. It was meant to be an escape, but Yuuri’s writing drew from his dreary mental state and the gray London skies more than he would admit. The subject of his focus was an intense description of Yomi, the Japanese mythological land of the dead, superimposed over his perceptions on London. It was just Yuuri and the poem in the small set of rooms most days - more often than not, Yuuri would brood and poke at his work, unsatisfied but feeling like he’d put too much effort in to give up now. He let the days go on, desperate to prove to himself that he’d made the right choice. Finally, in a moment of weakness, he submitted an extract of the poem to an Oxford literature journal called _The Spirit Journal_.

      When the work was rejected from publication in the journal, Yuuri locked the work away in the bottom drawer of his desk and moped for several days. It had been so long since he’d shown his writing to someone else, and the rejection stung him deeply. Yuuri felt like he’d been stripped bare and exposed for all of London to see. There was a kind of intense self-loathing that came with the unsavory reaction to something he’d been somewhat proud of. He considered giving up writing altogether but was kept from going that far when he realized that he would have to explain his reasons to Mari. And how could he let his family down like that, by throwing away his dream at the first hiccup? He thought back to the pressed, slightly crumpled amaryllis Mari had sent him before he made the move from Oxford. He didn’t understand the language of flowers like so many of his peers did, but he understood enough to know that she believed in him.

      Yuuri decided he must persevere.

 

☀

 

      The muggy summer melted away into the damp chill of autumn. It was around this time that his landlady informed him that he’d need to look for new lodgings, as she was presently selling her house moving to Italy to live with her son. The news came not long after his poem was rejected, but there was no time to dwell further because Yuuri was tasked with finding a new place to live in a short space of time.

      Immediately he ran into issues. With his budget, it appeared that he would be sacrificing living in a sanitary space. Some of the flats he looked at seemed downright uninhabitable. Feeling hopeless after touring one such dismal set of rooms, Yuuri returned to his own lodgings to find a letter from Mari. As most of her letters seemed to be, this one was well timed.

      She inquired after his search for new rooms and asked how he liked London. Mari knew her brother was anxious by nature; she must’ve known that he was holding back when he’d written that the crowds of the city were a bit hard to get used to. She told him that he’d feel better out of his room, and why didn’t he try going out and watching people? There was always much to learn, anyway.

      Feeling some degree cheerier after reading his sister’s words, Yuuri decided he might as well take her advice and go out for a walk. He decided to try Oxford Street, a place he’d been meaning to explore but hadn’t in the last few weeks, between brooding over his poem and harried searching for a new flat. Oxford Street was close by; he’d take a stroll there, and he’d keep his eyes open and his mind clear. Even though exploring London had been something he’d been looking forward to, whenever he’d ventured from his rooms Yuuri found himself anxious from the crowds and ill at ease with the traffic and smoky air. Poetry made Yuuri clumsy; he was apt to walk into people or get turned around in London’s crowded streets. There was an extra degree of unwelcome anxiety with these embarrassing interactions with Londoners. He always returned back to his poetry in a sour mood with sore feet and a bit of a cough. This evening he’d try and do things differently; he’d take in his surroundings. Yuuri told himself he’d even find some posy growing in the park to press and send it along with his reply to Mari so she would know he had taken her advice and gone out.

 

☀

 

      It was around six o’clock when Yuuri arrived on Oxford Street. It was busy, but Yuuri forced himself to look at this as a positive thing – there would be much to observe.

      He window shopped idly, doing his best to stay out of the way. When he stopped to inspect some watercolor paintings in a shop window, though, he was jostled forward as a man shoved past him. The man didn’t stop; he didn’t seem to realize he’d even made contact with Yuuri, but all the same the interaction struck a nerve. In spite of himself, Yuuri felt his mood dip – it was as if the city itself had reached out and pushed him aside. _I will never understand this place_ , he thought bitterly. Brooding, he turned and started back the way he came. This experiment of sorts had _not_ been a success.

      He was halfway back to his rooms when he realized that someone was calling his name. Yuuri turned and, after a heartbeat, recognized the man hailing him as Phichit Chulanont, one of his peers at Oxford. Chulanont was bright and ambitious, with a decided fondness for giving good advice. The man began to wave, and Yuuri could hardly pretend that he didn’t see him and continue sulking back to his rooms. Not that Chulanont gave him a chance – he darted across the street, nimbly dodging the London traffic. Yuuri was hit with a brief burst of envy – how many months of living here would it take for him to be able to manage something as bold as that?

      “Katsuki!” Chulanont said, as soon as he was within speaking distance. A wide grin was plastered across his face. “How are you?”

      Yuuri stumbled over his words at first before realizing Chulanont was genuinely asking after him; with this in mind, their conversation was able to progress without a hitch, even with Yuuri in a bit of a surly mood. Chulanont was easy to talk to, and Yuuri found himself sharing that he was in a pinch to find new lodgings. It turned out that crossing paths with Chulanont was a kind of blessing; after telling Yuuri about his flourishing career in Public Relations at the Foreign Office, Chulanont mentioned that he had _just_ the solution for Yuuri’s problem.  Without giving Yuuri a chance to speak, and evidently foregoing a breath, Chulanont began to explain animatedly. Apparently he knew an excellent fellow who needed someone to go halves with on a very nice set of rooms. He was in abruptly straitened circumstances due to some debts, a cancelled allowance, and some family quarrel (the last something Chulanont trusted Yuuri to keep to himself), and in fact, Yuuri probably knew this man from Oxford – Viktor Nikiforov. Surely, he remembered Nikiforov…?

      “Nikiforov?” Yuuri repeated blankly. “Ah,”

      “You don’t remember him?”

      Yuuri shrugged sheepishly and Chulanont huffed a decidedly put-upon sigh. “Katsuki, did you do _anything_ useful at Oxford?”

      “I fed the ducks, sometimes,”

      Chulanont rolled his eyes but quickly jumped back to his excited manner of speaking. “Anyway, I’ll introduce you. He’s really a decent chap, you’ll see-“

      “I’m grateful, Chulanont,” Yuuri interjected, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. He couldn’t possibly accept this generosity, didn’t Chulanont see that? How would he repay that? “I’m not really sure if –“

      “Don’t be an ass, Katsuki,” Chulanont said with a grin, as if this settled the matter. “You can meet at my club tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock – be on time, if you can manage it.” He took out his watch and announced that he had to be on his way. Ignoring Yuuri’s half-hearted protests, he departed with aplomb, leaving Yuuri more bewildered than he’d been before.

 

☀

 

      Chulanont’s club was cool and expensively silent, a ponderously far cry from the bustle of the streets just on the other side of the wall. Chulanont, it appeared, liked directing things and subsequently was in a quite cheery mood. Yuuri was uneasy. He was sitting across Chulanont, listening to a very long story about some happenings in the Foreign Office, when the door finally opened and a man paused, breathless, on the threshold. Yuuri recognized him immediately – the same piercing light eyes and careless good looks. He had an air of enjoying himself tremendously – which, Yuuri would later learn, was habitual.

      “Nikiforov,” Chulanont said, genial but reproachful. “We’d nearly given up hope.”

      “Well there’s a story there,” Nikiforov said with a grin before finally looking to the chair opposite Chulanont where Yuuri sat. “Ah.”

      Yuuri stared back at him, wide-eyed and quite at a loss. In flashes, he remembered the green book, the bright moonlight of the library, the smell of the crushed mock orange blossom and gin and sweat and dust. It might, in that moment, have progressed in a number of ways. Yuuri ought to have pretended to not recognize Nikiforov at all.

      Instead, he incredulously blurted, “It’s you.”

      “Yes,” Nikiforov agreed, his eyes – the precise color of a summer morning sky, Yuuri noted with some misplaced interest – didn’t leave Yuuri’s.

      “So you _do_ know each other?” Chulanont asked, shooting Yuuri a sideways glance. Both Yuuri and Nikiforov snapped their eyes to the other man’s face, startled as if being woken from a deep sleep.

      Nikiforov glanced at Yuuri before he answered. “We were never introduced, were we, Mr. …?”

      “Katsuki. Yuuri Katsuki.”

      Yuuri saw Nikiforov’s mouth twitch and thought, for a horrible moment, that he must be struggling with suppressed fury. But then he realized that it was not rage at all, but laughter, and this unsettled him more than Yuuri thought outright hostility would have.

      “Actually,” Yuuri began desperately, knowing his cheeks had flared up to a downright vermillion shade, “I think perhaps I should reconsider – about the rooms I mean. I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you, but –“

      “Reconsider?” Chulanont repeated, a kind of reprove in his tone and a challenge in his raised eyebrow.

      “Yes I – I’ve just thought, I know I ought to have mentioned this before, but I should probably move somewhere closer to my sister, and I wouldn’t want to…”

      His voice seemed to die in his throat. Chulanont was eyeing him with unconcealed disapproval, but Nikiforov smiled again and sat down in the chair nearest to Yuuri.

      “Nonsense!” he said.

      Yuuri said nothing. It had dawned on him how well Nikiforov was dressed, the way he could say _nonsense_ as if fate could not possibly have the audacity to disregard his wishes.

      “Come and see the rooms, at least,” he said in a softer voice, leaning towards Yuuri just slightly. “You’ll think differently when you see them. Besides, I’ll be the ideal person to share rooms with – won’t I, Chulanont?”

      Chulanont raised his eyebrow again and smiled somewhat sardonically at Yuuri. “You’d be a fool not to see the rooms,” he said, “You were so down in the mouth before, about having _nowhere to live_ ,”

      Yuuri silently cursed Chulanont for calling his bluff about sudden plans to move in with Mari. This was indisputable. And so Chulanont announced that he must be off to meet with some other friends, and together Yuuri and Nikiforov left to look at the rooms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phichit is my child and I was so excited to bring him into this story, so I hope you liked seeing him here, too! Any guesses as to who the owner of the rooms Vik and Yuuri are looking at it?
> 
> Flower Meanings:  
> Amaryllis - pride


	3. Tea Past Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri spends his days writing; Viktor spends his at parties, getting into trouble of one sort or another. Slowly, though, their lives settle together through cohabitation, and Yuuri discovers that Viktor is unlike anyone he's ever met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start posting twice a week, probably Wednesday and Sunday. Also, the rating will go up, but don't anticipate any explicit sexual content. I'm still learning how to work the tags, but there's also some eventual milasara coming your way ♡ If you're curious about their surroundings, I definitely encourage you to google place names + the year 1889, or check out [this Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/deathbyblondie/learning-the-language-of-flowers/) that I use when getting into the 'mood' if you will!

      The house was not far from the Natural History Museum, opposite the Brompton Oratory, on a street of high redbrick houses. It all seemed to Yuuri exceedingly genteel. The rooms belonged to a Mrs. Baranovskya – a distant relation Nikiforov claimed who, facing unexpected pecuniary difficulties after the death of her husband, was obliged to let rooms. Nikiforov and Yuuri’s coming was a considerable relief, for letting ordinary lodgers into the house would probably have been the death of her.

      Inside, the house was still in mourning but still seemed far too grand to be broken up by tenants. Mrs. Baranovskya met them in the drawing room. Like her house, she was very respectable if not somewhat sad. Her hair was still brown, shot through with gray, pulled back with a severity that somewhat shocked Yuuri. Nikiforov had mentioned on the walk over that she had been a ballerina many years ago in Russia (a harried sort of remark that bled into his next excited question – “how do you feel about dogs?”). Still, Mrs. Baranovskya was younger than Yuuri had expected to be wrapped in heavy mourning clothes.

      “I prepared the second floor,” she said, “I hope that will suit you both.”

      “It will, indeed,” Yuuri said, feeling a combination of intimidation and sadness for the severe Russian lady. He felt so sorry for her, her big empty house and the hard life etched into the lines of her face. It would be impossible to not take the rooms now.

      She led them up to the second floor, which they would have entirely to themselves – and Nikiforov’s standard poodle Makkachin, apparently. There was a bedroom each and a sitting room to share between them. Mrs. Baranovskya lived on the next floor, and the servants quarters were above that.

      Their rooms were let furnished, but this didn’t stop Nikiforov from altering their appearance as much as possible. He replaced all of the pictures with art of his own choosing, including some paintings he’d done himself. The favorite, apparently, was a still life – bright blue roses that dominated the wall of the sitting room. _Blue roses? Whatever could he mean by them?_ Yuuri found himself ceaselessly wondering. There were assorted pieces, too, that Nikiforov brought – ostentatious vases too big for the mantelpiece he displayed them on, an ugly hand-knotted rug that was forever getting bunched up and stumbled over. (Yuuri found himself hoping Makkachin was the kind of dog who liked to chew up ugly rugs, but apparently Makkachin preferred Nikiforov’s hosiery.)

      Best of all, though, were the flowers – always exquisite, though never very tidily arranged. Nikiforov had a decided fondness for tulips; he’d keep them for days, letting the petals come loose and the stems wind across the table like slender green snakes.

 

☀

 

      He never explained why he had decided to share rooms with Yuuri. At first, Yuuri half-thought it was to keep him in sight, in case he was the sort to spread tales and cause trouble. More likely it was a matter of convenience: there were the rooms, and there was Yuuri.

      Yuuri didn’t mind, though. It would be nice to observe people like Nikiforov – from a literary point of view, he was good raw material.

 

☀

 

      In the beginning, though, Yuuri saw very little of him. Nikiforov was usually out and about or asleep during the day; what conversations they did have generally took place after dark. Nikiforov would return home at some ungodly hour of the morning to find Yuuri still awake, busy with his latest poetical endeavor, with Makkachin curled up at his feet.

      It seemed that Yuuri spent more time with Nikiforov’s poodle than with the man himself. Not that he minded, really – the massive dog was as helpful as Nikiforov from a literary aspect, Yuuri told himself. When Yuuri would take the dog out on walks to the parks closest to Mrs. Baranovskya’s home (his favorite being Hyde Park), Makkachin invariably found someone new to pull Yuuri over to, barking happily and shoving his head into strangers to be pet. Better yet, taking Makkachin out gave Yuuri even more of a chance to observe people interacting, living their lives in a mundane way that Yuuri was always excited to try and capture for his own writing. This all forced Yuuri to be just a bit more social than he was used to; it wasn’t long before he could greet the people Makkachin dragged him to without stumbling over his words.

      Sometimes Nikiforov’s friends accompanied him home. The two who came along most often were called Giacometti and Leroy – loud and somewhat tiresome young men, very modern, much given to puerile humor. Giacometti in particular had a licentious type of humor; he delighted in making Yuuri blush. Leroy was a braggart, made worse by his obvious intelligence and good looks. If either of them had a profession, Yuuri saw little or no evidence of it. They would return with Nikiforov after some all-night debauch and spend hours in the sitting room, drinking and trying to smoke up the chimney (a halfhearted attempt to avoid upsetting Mrs. Baranovskya, who detested the smell of tobacco).

      Often, they did not leave until the proper morning, terrifying the housemaid on her way up the stairs on a handful of occasions. They were far too familiar with Yuuri for his liking; they made jokes about his name and liked to believe that, as a poet, he must lead a life of intrigue and depravity. After a few tiresome – and indeed, somewhat stressful – encounters, Yuuri began to try and ignore them. Whenever he heard their steps on the stairs, he would gather his work and retreat to his bedroom (often with Makkachin on his heels; the massive poodle had taken a liking to Yuuri, or at least keeping him company while he wrote).

      When Yuuri heard Nikiforov coming home alone, though, he’d stay where he was. He told himself that this was because the desk in the sitting room was far larger than the one in his room, and he had as much a right to be there as Nikiforov did. Anyway, it wouldn’t do for Nikiforov to think Yuuri was stealing his dog.

      Nikiforov never stumbled, even when absolutely sponge-heavy with alcohol. Not even on the night in late September, not long after they’d moved into Mrs. Baranovskya’s home, when he came home absolutely plastered, soaked to the skin from the rain, and dressed in a much-abused doublet and a torn cloak. A battered, wilted green carnation hung somewhat dejectedly from one of his buttonholes. Yuuri – who had been deep in an irritating metrical negotiation – had jumped when Makkachin barked at Nikiforov’s entrance. Yuuri blinked, taking in Nikiforov’s disarray, his peculiar costume.

      “Don’t laugh,” Nikiforov said, still in the doorway.

      “Wasn’t going to.”

      “Of course you were. You’re an awfully bad liar, you know. Cabby had a few things to say, I can _tell_ you. And that was _before_ we ran out of money.” Makkachin pulled himself to his feet and trotted over to Nikiforov, sniffing the torn cloak furiously and giving another soft bark. Nikiforov reached down to pat Makkachin’s head, but the poodle apparently decided he would do better with Yuuri, for he returned to his place on Yuuri’s feet. Nikiforov sighed and pushed the door shut slowly, with a look of concentration that was rather comical, before turning to meet Yuuri’s eyes with an expression of infinite weariness.

      “Is there any tea?” he asked.

      “Beg your pardon?”

      “Tea,” Nikiforov said, enunciating very, very precisely as if he thought he might’ve slipped into Russian. “Is there any?”

      Surely Nikiforov knew the hour – the housemaid had probably been asleep for several hours at that point. Yuuri pointedly looked around the room before saying, “No.”

      Nikiforov sighed deeply once more, looking so tired and put out that Yuuri was sorry that he’d been so brusque. “I could make you some, if you’d like,” he offered, nudging Makkachin off his feet so he could rise.

      “Really?” Nikiforov’s drunk, wondering smile was positively heart-shaped.

      Yuuri was quite familiar with making his own tea from his years in the dorm at Oxford, and had brought his teapot with him through the moves he’d made. He nodded, and added, “There’s no sugar, though. No milk, either.”

      “That’s fine,” Nikiforov said, though it was really a kind of slurred exhale as he dropped down to sit on the sofa. Makkachin jumped up next to him – far too big a dog to lounge on Mrs. Baranovskya’s delicate furniture, though neither man had the heart to reprimand him – and Nikiforov closed his eyes.

      “Party at Mrs. – party at Mrs. someone’s. Dancing, feast, mock tournament, all medieval. Picturesque age, everyone said.  We all had to go in costume… my god, what an evening.” He needed an audience, perhaps, because when Yuuri didn’t reply, Nikiforov opened one eye and fixed him with a cool stare. “Really, you wouldn’t _believe_ what happened.”

      “Oh?” said Yuuri, knowing he was simply humoring Nikiforov but strangely interested in what Nikiforov had to say. “What happened?”

      And Nikiforov settled deeper into the sofa, stroking Makkachin idly, and began to tell him all about it.

 

☀

 

      This slowly became a habit for them. At night, sometimes one or two o’clock – or later – Yuuri would look up from his work to find Nikiforov had returned. He might’ve been to the theatre, to dinner at some high society club, or to a ball at the home of a socialite. Once he visited a skating rink; another time, he went to see the embalmed and preserved remains of Bentham at University College. _Living his life_ , Yuuri thought, _must be like wandering in a greenhouse, every fruit and flower at his fingertips._ He sometimes spoke of pursuing the law – apparently this was some agreement he had with his family – but surely there was no time for anything of that sort, living the way he did.

      “Good evening?” Yuuri would ask when Nikiforov would get back, and if he looked particularly worn, Yuuri would add, “You look done in.”

      Nikiforov would smirk and say “Oh, be quiet,” – or something more or less to that degree, generally depending on how much he’d had to drink. “And for the love of god, make me some tea,”

      Yuuri would sigh and make tea on the fire while Nikiforov reclined in the nearest chair, eyes closed, collecting himself. Makkachin would do his best to help by clambering into Nikiforov’s lap – which was quite a sight to behold, as the dog easily weighed thirty kilograms – and licking his face. By the time the tea was ready, Nikiforov was usually recovered enough to talk. His stories were usually about himself, his friends, or his family.

      Nikiforov had moved to London with his uncle, Yakov Feltsman, and his younger brother, Yuri, as a child. He didn’t speak much about his parents, but Yuuri got the impression that like Mrs. Baranovskya, his mother had been a ballet dancer. Apparently both of her sons danced as well, though Nikiforov didn’t mention dancing other than to say that his brother was in the process of deciding between going to university or pursuing a career as a danseur. Nikiforov did mention that his brother had taken their mother’s surname, as their father had died before Yuri had a chance to know him, and felt that the patronymic he had was more than enough recognition for a ‘stranger’. Nikiforov didn’t give any indication of which he thought young Yuri was better suited to, only remarked that he had a bit of a prickly personality that he couldn’t understand (“I mean, can you imagine being so short with everyone you meet that you’ve hardly any friends? And so sanctimonious!”).

      Feltsman and Nikiforov apparently quarreled often; he didn’t approve of Nikiforov’s habits of drinking or attending endless parties, or his habit of deciding things on a whim. It was with him that Nikiforov had agreed to become a lawyer – Yuuri found himself wondering how they’d settled on a serious profession like that; it seemed ridiculous to imagine Nikiforov in a powdered wig, upholding the law.

 

☀

 

      There was one evening towards the end of October that it began to rain as it grew dark. Sitting on the sofa with Makkachin, leaned over to write with his papers on the side table, the curtains drawn and the fire crackling softly, Yuuri found himself thinking of Nikiforov. Did he enjoy being out in weather like this? Was he having a good night? And it was with these thoughts in the silence broken only by the sounds of the fire and the rain and Makkachin’s soft snoring that Yuuri found himself drifting off into a comfortable doze.

      He awoke abruptly to icy water trickling down his neck. He jumped, cursed, and looked up to see Nikiforov holding a dripping umbrella over him.

      “You were asleep,” he said cheerfully with that heart-shaped grin, eyes slightly unfocused. He smelled of champagne and tobacco. Wherever he had been, it was clear that the storm hadn’t spoiled the evening’s entertainment.

      Yuuri glanced down to the page of _Eros_ that he’d fallen asleep working on – it was spotted with water, as if he’d been weeping over the manuscript. “Oh, look what you’ve done!” he exclaimed, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice. “You utter-“

      “Sorry, sorry!” Nikiforov interrupted, looking chagrinned. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

      “What? What is it?” Yuuri snapped.

      “Have you been… drinking ink?”

      “What? No, of course not,” Yuuri looked down at his hands, and there were the usual black smudges of ink (marks of a writer which he was quite proud of, really). He must’ve rubbed his mouth or begun to bite his nails… yes, he could taste the bitter black ink now. Sighing, he pulled out his handkerchief and began scrubbing at his mouth.

      “No,” Nikiforov said impatiently, reaching out and clumsily touching one corner of Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri froze, feeling like the place Nikiforov’s finger had brushed was buzzing like a bee. “Other side.” Nikiforov’s eyes wandered down to the pages of _Eros_ , still drying on the table. “What are you writing, anyway?”

      “A poem.”

      “Can I read it?”

      “No.” Yuuri shuffled the pages out of sight, wary of the gleam in Nikiforov’s impossible light eyes, afraid he might try to seize _Eros_ by force.

      “Is it that bad?”

      “I won’t know until I’ve finished it.”

      “Well what’s it about?” Nikiforov slumped into his usual place by the fire, and Makkachin trundled over to plant himself against his legs. A soft crease appeared between his eyebrows as he concentrated. “Something serious – decline of the race, o tempora o mores, death of some great man, that sort of thing?”

      Yuuri smiled in spite of himself. “Not really, no.” he settled down in his own place across from Nikiforov. “There’s… well, there’s an old man. He shows up to a woman’s burial, and insists on telling his tale before she is buried.”

      Nikiforov nodded, eyes bright though still slightly unfocused. “Then what happens?”

      “He tells his tale. It’s about a kind of philanderer who comes to a new town and begins to seduce women left and right. He decides to pursue the most beautiful woman in town, but she isn’t swayed by his charm.”

      “She’s not a ghost, is she?”

      Yuuri had to bite back a laugh. “What’s wrong with ghosts?”

      Nikiforov rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. “Too flimsy. You can walk right through them – where’s the fun in that?”

      “Well, she’s not a ghost. Anyway, I think she does end up falling for the Casanova. I’m not quite sure, though; I haven’t gotten to that part yet. It’s taken me six stanzas just to describe the old man.” Yuuri gathered his papers up and moved to the desk. When he looked back over his shoulder, Nikiforov was smiling at him – a real smile, his eyes soft and his lips drawn sleepily, genuinely, into something of a heart.

      He said, “I suppose that makes sense. The old men are important, aren’t they? In a poem like this. People will want to know what he looks like, whether he has a beard, that sort of thing. You did give him a beard, didn’t you?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “Well you’ll put one in, if you take my advice.” Nikiforov still wore the soft smile, though he had closed his eyes.

      “I’ll make a note,” Yuuri said, smiling though he knew Nikiforov couldn’t see him. He turned back to his work.

      When he glanced up again, not after too long, Yuuri thought, Nikiforov had fallen asleep, sprawled out in his chair as if determined to take up space. Even drunk and unconscious he had a charming air about him, as if he contrived to be agreeable. Yuuri studied him for a moment – far longer than he should’ve, really – before returning to his poem to reread the line he’d just added. It wasn’t half bad, he decided, though that only meant it was half good. There was time for improvement, though. There was tomorrow.

      He sat back in the desk chair, eyes drifting over to Nikiforov’s sleeping form, abruptly pleased with himself – and with Nikiforov, who smiled in his sleep.

      Yuuri thought, proud and wondering, _this is my friend_. It was in this moment that he seemed to realize how solitary his life had been before. The fire crackled warmly, and he was content. The longer he sat, though, the more a feeling of unease settled in his stomach. He wasn’t used to this; it was something like having been in a poorly lit room. Your eyes adjusted to the dim light and you saw well enough, but if someone brought a lamp, suddenly everything was very bright – unpleasantly so at first. You might as well hate that person and their light, for arriving rudely and unannounced.

      How odd it was, how interestingly perverse, to fear happiness. It was the dread of getting things wrong, the fear of losing this friend he had, by some kind of luck (or Phichit Chulanont, depending on who you asked) managed to find. But Yuuri could not dwell on these things; it was growing cold in the room and the fire would soon die down – and anyway, he was getting morbid.

      And it would be unkind to leave Nikiforov there all night; he’d wake him up and then go to bed soon. Not just yet, though. Yuuri sat a while longer and watched the fire burn low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of familiar faces in this chapter! I loved expanding this world just a little bit more, I have such soft spots for these characters. So if anyone guessed that the landlady would be Lilia, you were correct! Don't fear, I promise details of her backstory (and Viktor's) in the chapters to come ☺  
> Flower Meanings:  
> Tulips - multiple meanings changing with petal color  
> Green Carnations - inspired in part by Oscar Wilde and the scandalous book by that name focused on Wilde's (homosexual) relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas that eventually contributed to Wilde's prosecution and incarceration, green carnations became a symbol of male homosexuality between those in the know


	4. The Theatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winter comes and bleeds into spring, every day following the same routine - until Viktor makes an offer that Yuuri feels compelled to accept, and their dynamic shifts just-so. As Oscar Wilde's play draws to a close, so does the Eros story...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters that I've written in this fic, definitely plenty of action. If you want some visual representation for this fic, [there's a pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/deathbyblondie/learning-the-language-of-flowers/) with some of my inspiration and references, and if you wanna talk about this AU or any others, come find me on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)   
>  Enjoy! ^_^

      As it happened, it was a London Christmas. Yuuri had intended to go to East Finchley to be with Mari and the Nishigoris, but an attack of influenza left him too weak to travel. His sister and the Nishigoris were disappointed, of course, and Yuuko was almost beside herself with worry, it seemed, that Yuuri was there ill and alone in his London rooms. Yuuri did his best to placate his childhood friend; Mrs. Baranovskya was there, sending Nikiforov up to the rooms with homemade borscht and homeopathic remedies she swore by, as well as an arm load of blankets (Yuuri was constantly being asked if he did not need another blanket, if he was cold, if the fire was warm enough).

      Nikiforov didn’t leave London either. He hated going to the country and he hated shooting, he told Yuuri, and he quite liked the city once half the people had gone – it was enjoyably lonely. Anyway, Makkachin could do all the running he liked in London now instead of the country; the park was absolutely deserted. At the beginning of December he’d spoken of spending Christmas – Orthodox Russian Christmas, Yuuri was reminded – with Yakov and Yuri at the family’s house in the country – apparently it was a kind of tradition for all of them to spend the holiday together, no matter how badly they had quarreled during the year. The days passed, though, and Nikiforov didn’t leave. Yuuri didn’t mention it.

      Nikiforov was more restless than usual, but not otherwise out of sorts. Mrs. Baranovskya liked having him around the house. He would occasionally claim the privilege of having some kind of relation to her to bring her flowers or some other tokens – bright touches of color for the house still in mourning.

 

☀

 

      The months after Christmas passed quickly; comfortably.

      One bright morning in February, Yuuri returned from a long walk with Makkachin to find Nikiforov in his room. He was smoking, turning over the photograph of Mari which stood on the dressing table. He still wore evening dress (mostly; he’d shed his jacket and stood in rolled-up shirtsleeves and a waistcoat) and had probably been out all night – a ball until dawn, then back to Giacometti and Leroy’s for breakfast. He was pale and his eyes positively glittered; the yellow acacia in his buttonhole had lost most of its buds – not that Nikiforov seemed to notice.

      “Hello,” he said, not abashed at being discovered. “Is this your sister?”

      Yuuri nodded. It was not, he knew, an especially good photograph: to a stranger it would only show a Japanese woman in her middle twenties, wearing a stern expression – Mari had never really been one to be comfortable with focus on her. She slouched in the picture, which did nothing but make her appear frumpy. Mari was the same height as Yuuri – a head taller than their mother back home in Japan – but you couldn’t discern her height from the photograph. Her hair was lighter in places from the sun and cut unfashionably short. The photographer had caught her moving to adjust her hat; it appeared as if she were waving farewell. It was one of Yuuri’s favorite pictures of her.

      He took the picture from Nikiforov and set it back in its place on the dressing table.

      “Did you want something?” he asked.

      “No,” Nikiforov said. He turned, a tail of cigarette smoke following him, to survey the rest of the bedroom. It was as if the place fascinated him, Yuuri thought, though there really wasn’t anything remarkable about it, save for the clutter. There were some pictures Yuuri liked – a couple had been rescued from the sitting room after Nikiforov’s ‘improvements’. Over the bed hung a ludicrous engraving that Yuuri was rather fond of, entitled _Psyche discovering Cupid_. There were also many books, kept in no particular order and giving the whole room the comforting smell of paper and ink.

      He sat down on the bed and watched as Nikiforov continued his investigations, unconcerned by Yuuri’s scrutiny. The very outrageousness of his behavior disarmed Yuuri’s indignation. There was a lazy enjoyment in watching Nikiforov turning over his books, reading the spines with care, leafing through his discarded papers as if searching for something. Perhaps he would make fun of Yuuri’s taste in literature – so hopelessly old fashioned. Upon moving to London, Yuuri had done his best to educate himself, had gone scrabbling after new theories – naturalism, symbolism – but had never quite been able to catch up. Anyway, he thought, what was so dreadful about preferring old works to new? Dickens, Thackeray, Tennyson, George Eliot – there was no shame in having such friends amongst the dead.

      Nikiforov held up a volume. “What’s this? _Etiquette: What to Do, and How to Do It_?”

      Yuuri's stomach clenched as he recalled the guides which he had purchased weeks ago in an attempt to acquire a little social polish. Like an utter fool he had left them out on the table in plain sight. Before Yuuri could stop him, Nikiforov had already opened the book to a random page and read aloud, “ _Any lady who walks much in London, whether alone or with a friend or relation, should be careful to select a very quiet costume_ –“ He broke off, smiling, laughter poorly concealed in his voice. “Why do you have this?”

      “Give it back.”

      But Nikiforov was still flicking through the book: “… _in the present day, the deepest mourning, and the strictest seclusion are often observed, for_ friends _only, while a period of mourning and the extent of it is materially curtailed when_ –“

      “Stop it.” And Yuuri reached out and snatched the book away from him, throwing it back out of sight on the bed.

      Nikiforov stared at him, looking slightly surprised. Yuuri half expected him to turn his head sideways like Makkachin did. “Alright. Sorry.” After a pause, he added with a half-smile, “You wound me, Katsuki. You’ve got quite a temper, you know.”

      Yuuri felt a pang of regret at having upset Nikiforov, but kept his voice even as he replied, “I didn’t until I moved here.” Immediately he felt his cheeks coloring. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious.

      Nikiforov put his cigarette out in an empty saucer. “I really am sorry. I was just curious. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.” He said it matter-of-factly, not like a compliment. In all likelihood he simply meant that Yuuri was rather peculiar.

      There was a silence in which Nikiforov pressed his cigarette into the saucer with some force, though surely it must be out by now.

      “Well,” Yuuri said at last, attempting a smile, “I am a poet, some of the time –“

      Nikiforov cut him off with a laugh, the one he usually only used for his fashionable friends. “Oh, yes, of course, that’s it,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, though his voice was light. “You’re a poet.” And he began to sing mockingly under his breath:

_A most intense young man,_

_A soulful-eyed young man,_

_An ultra-poetical, super-aesthetical,_

_Out-of-the-way young man!_

      “I’ll see you later,” he added at the door, and then he was gone, leaving the smell of cigarette smoke in his wake.

      Yuuri took a deep breath. The room seemed different somehow, which was absurd. Perhaps he should open the window.

      Then there was a knock at the door. It was sharp, hurried – Nikiforov stuck his head in. “Are you busy next Saturday?” he asked without preamble.

      “No,” Yuuri said. When Nikiforov said nothing else, he added, “Why?”

      “I’ve got seats at the theatre. It’s opening night. And it’s at the St. James’s, so you should certainly come.”

      “What about Giacometti?” Yuuri asked. “And Leroy?”

      Nikiforov shrugged, as if Giacometti and Leroy were nothing to him, rather than his close friends and boon companions since Oxford.

      “Well, all right.” Yuuri said, knowing he was blushing again. “Sorry. I mean thank you, of course.”

      “Lady something-or-other, it’s called. Something like that. There’s a lady involved, anyway, which is promising.”

      And before Yuuri could reply, Nikiforov had let the door snap closed for a second time.

 

☀

 

      The evening of the play arrived. Nikiforov suggested they walk to the theatre; it was a pleasant evening for the time of year, and in the lamplight the city seemed newly made. To Yuuri – who had had precisely the right amount of champagne at dinner – the city’s mysteries seemed far more benign than they ever had before. They stopped in Trafalgar Square for Nikiforov to light a cigarette, and as they paused London went on around them, all noise and motion and smoky air. The lights – the light at the end of the cigarette, the lamplight burning in the windows of shops and hotels – reflected in the water of the fountains. It felt nice to stand there and feel the world moving.

      Nikiforov’s eyes slid over to meet Yuuri’s and he raised an eyebrow. “Of course, we don’t _have_ to go to the theatre,” he said, “We could go somewhere else.”

      Somewhere else – oh. Yuuri thought of the stories Giacometti liked to tell to make a blush rise on his cheeks. _That_ sort of elsewhere. Yuuri thought of red velvet curtains and rooms full of orchids… even shaking hands with a new acquaintance was awkward for him, did Nikiforov seriously expect them to tramp around London in the cold in search of the sort of female who would allow or indeed require –

      But Nikiforov had already smiled, blown a feathery breath of smoke off into the night. “No?” he asked, as if Yuuri had already spoken. “That’s quite alright. Seats are already paid for, anyway.” They resumed walking, and Yuuri was glad to leave the subject behind them. Nikiforov walked close, brushing Yuuri’s shoulder with his own. “You’re a good influence, I think. Yakov would be pleased to hear.”

      The theatre was crowded when they arrived. They were at the door when a voice behind them called out: “Viktor!”

      It was Mila Babicheva, hastening towards them with a smile. She had changed, Yuuri thought, since the last time he saw her, tipsy and laughing amongst the bookshelves. She had grown up a little, filled her frame out a bit, and it suited her. She wore olive-green silk, patterned with flowers and vines and trimmed with tawny fur. Her auburn hair was done in careful curls.

      Nikiforov moved over to meet her. “Mila! What on earth are you doing here? Surely you’re not alone?”

      “It’s Mrs. Crispino now, if you please.”

      “Crispino?” the reproach in his voice was clear, but when Yuuri glanced to his face, Nikiforov looked more concerned than anything else.

      “Yes. Don’t look at me like that. I –“ then her eyes met Yuuri’s and she broke off in surprise. “Oh.” She might have faltered last year. Now she simply looked rather more serious for a moment before her smile returned. “It _is_ you, isn’t it?”

      She and Nikiforov both looked at Yuuri, their expressions oddly similar, so that for an instant Yuuri felt that he was back at Oxford.

      “Yes,” Yuuri admitted. “Hello,” he added, as an afterthought. “How do you do.”

      “I’m so pleased to see you again, Mr. …”

      “Katsuki, Yuuri Katsuki,” Nikiforov said, amusement glimmering beneath the surface of his politeness.

      “How strange to meet like this, don’t you think?” they both looked to be on the verge of laughter. “Almost like predestination, really – although of course you don’t believe in that, do you?” she turned from Nikiforov to Yuuri. “Do you know, the first time Viktor ever visited us at home, he spent half an hour telling me about all the things he didn’t believe in? He was particularly scathing about vegetarians, if I remember rightly.”

      Nikiforov was smiling at Yuuri; he rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Mrs. Crispino. “Well, I was a wild young man back then. Oh, do you remember Mr. Popovich?”

      They began to discuss a number of people whose names were meaningless to Yuuri – before, finally, Mrs. Crispino turned to Yuuri with a charming, apologetic look.

      “I’m so sorry,” she said, “you must be awfully bored.”

      “Oh, no,” Yuuri answered vaguely.

      “It’s all _your_ doing,” Mrs. Crispino said to Nikiforov. “I said I’d only be a minute, and Michele hates to wait.” She looked rather pleased by this reflection, though. Yuuri had the idea of a long, private game of hide-and-seek. “You’ll come and see me, won’t you?” she looked again at Yuuri. “And of course I haven’t seen you for even longer, Mr. Katsuki, though I remember the occasion well.”

      She paused kindly to allow Yuuri to say something witty. “So do I,” Yuuri said finally.

      “Let him alone,” Nikiforov said. “He’s not from around here; he’s not used to your sort.”

      She smiled and gave a little bow before disappearing into the theatre, leaving them only a few minutes to find their seats before the play began.

 

☀

 

      To Yuuri’s satisfaction, the story ended happily.

      “Well?” Nikiforov asked, ducking his head a bit to speak in Yuuri’s ear as applause clattered around them like a sudden downpour. “Did you like it?”

      “Good, I thought.” He was not yet ready to talk; his ideas had not settled and he was still half dazed by the end of the performance and the return to his own life.

      “You see what it does, of course?” asked Nikiforov.

      “You mean…”

      “Yes exactly,” Nikiforov said, launching into an analysis of the play that Yuuri couldn’t quite follow.

      “Well, I could be wrong,” Yuuri began, “but surely it’s only about…” he lost confidence in his ideas halfway through and gave up with a shrug. “Anyway, I’m glad Mrs. ... Mrs. … I’ve forgotten her name already – you know, the mother.”

      “Oh yes, the mother –“

      “I’m glad it ended well for her.”

      Nikiforov grinned, his eyes softening in the way that Yuuri knew was genuine. “Uncomplicated verdict, but from the heart.”

      He could be really insufferable at times. Yuuri was about to point this out to him when Nikiforov said, “Oh look,” and leaned forward. “Isn’t that Wilde?”

      Yuuri leaned forward, too, and squinted. He hadn’t worn his glasses in an effort to look somewhat polished. “The author? You mean that man who’s just come on?”

      “Yes.”

      Oscar Wilde was dark and pale, a tall man – a giant. It appeared for a moment that he was breathing fire, and Yuuri realized that this was because he was smoking. He turned to comment on this to Nikiforov.

      “Hush,” Nikiforov said. “Listen.”

      Even though Wilde’s features were ill defined to Yuuri without his glasses, he could see the smoke still trailing from the author’s lips, the mauve gloves he wore, the green carnation in his buttonhole. He looked like someone from a story. Finally, he began to speak.

      Yuuri and Nikiforov were sitting much too far away to catch more than snatches of the speech, which drifted back to them in bright fragments, like scraps of colored paper on a breeze. It was as if he was a part of the play, as if he’d written these lines beforehand.

      Yuuri turned to Nikiforov. “What did he say? About the audience?”

      “I didn’t hear,” Nikiforov answered, sounding irritated.

      They both leaned further forwards – but a moment later the figure onstage was bowing, smiling, and the audience was applauding once more. Nikiforov turned back to Yuuri. “That was interesting. Unusual man… a genius, I suppose.”

      Yuuri was beginning to verbally puzzle out whether it was right to call someone still living a genius when Nikiforov interrupted him. “Perhaps you should write a play.”

      “A play?” Yuuri had never considered such a thing. “I don’t think I could.”

      Nikiforov shrugged. “You could try, couldn’t you?” he retrieved his hat from under the chair and stood up. “Shall we go?”

      On the stairs, Yuuri felt Nikiforov give him a nudge.

      “There.” Nikiforov nodded towards a man with long blond hair tied down his back, offering an arm to an older man who was quite bald under his bowler hat.

      “Who is it?”

      “My brother. And uncle. I didn’t think they’d be here.” And Nikiforov called out, “Yuri! Over here!”

      The blond man turned, and Yuuri had a brief view of his face – a face still with some childhood roundness, a disapproving green-eyed stare. Then Yuri Plisetsky turned back to his uncle. Yuuri saw him say something to the older man, and in another moment they were gone.

      Yuuri had never seen anyone cut like that before, much less by their own family. He took a gamble. “I think perhaps they didn’t see you… and it’s so loud in here, you know.”

      Nikiforov finally looked at him, the hurt in his eyes horribly obvious. “I don’t really care what you think,” he said flatly. “And would it be beyond you to find a clean shirt?”

      Yuuri followed Nikiforov’s gaze to his own cuffs, realizing that they were spotted with black ink. There had been a phrase to alter in _Eros_ before he left; he had been in a hurry. Yuuri looked back at his friend. Of course Nikiforov was angry and striking out. If Yuuri had thought Nikiforov cared only shallowly for his family – or for anyone or anything – then here was the proof of how wrong, how unfair, he had been.

      “Do you want to get a cab?” Yuuri asked, ignoring the jab Nikiforov had made.

      “You get one. I’m going out.”

      “No,” Yuuri said, surprising even himself with how final his tone was. “I don’t think you should.”

      Apparently Nikiforov was shocked, too. “What?”

      “For one thing, you’re in no mood for it, and for another you borrowed five pounds from Giacometti yesterday, so you certainly can’t afford it.”

      Nikiforov stared at him, appearing rather startled. Yuuri began walking again, and after a moment Nikiforov followed him. At the door they lingered, looking out into the darkness as people pushed past them. Yuuri turned to Nikiforov, willed the other man to meet his eyes.

      “I _could_ write a play, you know,” he said awkwardly. “Perhaps I’ll give it a try.”

      Nikiforov’s eyes on his still showed the hurt he felt, but he smiled faintly all the same. “What about your playboy and the woman? Are you deserting them?”

      Yuuri shrugged and felt only a little guilty. “I think so. She can sort herself out from now on.”

      Nikiforov didn’t say anything, just stood with his shoulder pressed against Yuuri’s as they stared out into the London night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, some housekeeping:
> 
> The lyrics Viktor quotes to Yuuri are from the 1881 Gilbert and Sullivan operetta "Patience". From the [archive](http://gsarchive.net/patience/html/index.html): "Patience satirizes the "aesthetic craze" of the 1870's and '80s, when the output of poets, composers, painters and designers of all kinds was indeed prolific — but, some argued, empty and self-indulgent." Originally this was a scene in Lauren Owen's book, but I decided to work it into this fic because I think it lends some irony (and because I'm a fan of both Viktor and Yuuri being sassypants...)
> 
> Flower Meanings:  
>  yellow acacia - secret love  
>  green carnation - symbolic of homosexuality
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading! This fic is kind of my baby, and though I know it's definitely in a kind of niche, I'm so grateful to those who have set time aside to read what I have. At the moment, this fic is about 96% complete in my documents, and I'm very much looking forward to sharing it with you all. As always, I'm open to questions and comments about this or any of my other works. Definitely come holler at me on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)!


	5. The Crispino Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor is concerned Yuuri is becoming reclusive and insists he accompanies him to a ball held by Mila Babicheva-Crispino. Revelations are made, with varying consequences.
> 
> There's some implied period-typical homophobia in this chapter - in the UK homosexuality wasn't decriminalized until 1967 (partially). Where that's not explicitly addressed, there is a moment at the end of the fic that Yuuri experiences some anxiety and (in the words of Oscar Wilde's lover, Lord Alfred Douglas) 'the love that dare not speak its name' is the reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you guys are probably like "dude where's the action, where's the milasara, what are you doing" so this is for y'all!
> 
> If you want some visual representation for this fic, there's a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/deathbyblondie/learning-the-language-of-flowers/) with some of my inspiration and references, and if you wanna talk about this AU or any others, come find me on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)!!!
> 
> lmk what you think ♥♥♥

      Nikiforov, Yuuri decided, had abandoned all thought of pursuing a profession.  As April came, and with it, springtime, his stories when arriving home from a night or a few days’ absence were even more extravagant than usual. Sometimes he’d invite Yuuri to accompany him to some picnic or party or luncheon or dinner, and Yuuri – always uncertain of how seriously to take such offers – would invariably refuse.

      He hadn’t begun writing his play quite yet; every time he sat to write there always seemed to be something else more pressing to do. He had ideas, of course, but instead of following them properly he turned over old odds and ends, wrote the beginnings or endings to five different stories which would never be finished.

 

☀

 

      One morning in June, Nikiforov was awake earlier than usual. As Yuuri sat at the sitting-room desk, Makkachin by his feet, writing a letter to Mari (for it was still much too early in the day for literature), Nikiforov sat down at the breakfast table and began on the toast and coffee. He seemed to be in an excellent mood and was humming under his breath. Makkachin, in response to Nikiforov’s mood, wagged his tail against the floor with the steady rhythm of a drum.

      “Have you eaten?” Nikiforov asked Yuuri.

      “Not really,” Yuuri said. “That’s my toast you’ve got there, actually. It’s probably cold by now, anyway. Why don’t you have some more sent up?”

      “I like cold toast, as it happens.”

      “Well, so do I.”

      “Do you want some?”

      “Not now,” Yuuri said, but Nikiforov was already wandering over to the desk, carrying the plate of buttered toast.

      “Here,” he said.

      “I’m writing,” Yuuri replied, flicking a sideways glance at Nikiforov.

      “I’m not stopping you.” Nikiforov held a piece of toast under Yuuri’s nose. “Go on.”

      Blushing, Yuuri continued to write, but opened his mouth and took a bite. _Tell the triplets that I hope they enjoy the ginger sweets_ came out a bit messy and smudged.

      “There,” Nikiforov said, offering his hand to Makkachin, who happily licked the butter from his fingers. “A bit like feeding a horse, you know?” he went back to the breakfast table and sat down, Makkachin trailing behind like a shadow, though Yuuri could feel Nikiforov’s eyes trained on him. “Have you started your play?”

      “No.”

      “But you _are_ going to write it, aren’t you?”

      “Yes, probably,” Yuuri began on a new sentence to Mari but laid his pen down again. “I do have a title,” he added hurriedly. “ _Finding Agape_. What do you think?”

      Nikiforov took a sip of coffee – that, in truth, had been Yuuri’s as well, but he didn’t think it would be prudent to mention that now – and considered a moment. “Yes. I think I’d buy tickets to that – or I’d go if someone else bought me a ticket.”

      “Thank you.”

      “I’m assuming it deals with the Greek theory of selfless love?”

      “Well, yes,” Yuuri said, a little put out that Nikiforov had guessed this so easily.

      “That’s alright then. By the way, I saw Mila Babicheva – or Crispino, I suppose. She’s inviting us both to her ball next month. You ought to go, you’re starting to turn into a hermit.”

      “I’m not.”

      “You are!  You don’t go anywhere, you never see anyone.”

      “I see _you_ ,” Yuuri said absently, having returned to the letter. “We went to the theatre.”

      When he looked up, Nikiforov had a funny half-smile that he seemed to force back into a stern line when he caught Yuuri’s eye. “That was ages ago. Come with me next month.”

      “No. Thank you for getting me an invitation, though.”

      “Come with me,” Nikiforov persisted. “It’ll be interesting, I promise. Yuri is going to be there, and I’m going to have words with him. I think he’s been carrying tales of me to Yakov.”

      “True ones?”

      Nikiforov smiled properly and shrugged. “That’s not the point,” he said. “Look, I really think you should go. You’ll enjoy yourself. And if you say yes, I’ll leave you in peace now. How’s that for a bargain?”

      Yuuri felt like it would be rude to argue anymore; he agreed and Nikiforov kept his promise and left the room with Makkachin, leaving Yuuri alone with the letter. Yuuri couldn’t help but feel like the room was too big without Nikiforov in it, and he somewhat regretted being won over so easily.

☀

 

      The evening of the ball found them at the Crispino house, a tall and gracious building on Eaton Square, already hectic with guests. A long line of carriages trailed slowly by the door, each depositing a handful of passengers. Inside, the house was large and grand, the furniture more modern than Yuuri liked with a kind of very expensive simplicity. There were flowers everywhere, lamps burning bright, music coming from upstairs. Everyone, Yuuri thought, seemed to know precisely what to do and where to go.

      Nikiforov steered him towards the cloakroom; he was stripped of his coat and hat and before he really knew what was happening, he was being directed towards the stairs. Here they were obliged to wait for several minutes behind a line of other guests, all engaged in the same slow ascent. Nikiforov said little; he appeared almost nervous. From time to time he looked around him, perhaps searching for his brother.

      At last they reached the top of the stairs and their names were announced one after the other, with dreadful distinctness, by a superior butler.

      Mrs. Crispino greeted them, held out her hand to Nikiforov with her brightest smile. “I’m so glad to see you, Viktor,” she said. “And Mr. Katsuki,” she turned her bright smile on Yuuri. “How nice to see you again.”

      The music and conversation were already growing louder, Yuuri noticed. The doors to the great hall were held open; there was no chance of a moment’s solitude, no possible escape from the noise or the endless people. Nikiforov’s voice cut into Yuuri’s panicked thoughts.

      “Has Yuri arrived yet?”

      Mrs. Crispino looked first to Yuuri and then back to Nikiforov before realizing Nikiforov was asking after his own brother. She shook her head. “He’s not well, poor thing. He sent a nice note this morning, very apologetic.”

      “Ah, well, can’t say I’m surprised,” Nikiforov said – having been cheated of a difficult conversation with his brother, he was pleased and disappointed all at once.

      “Never mind him, Viktor. Come, let me introduce you two to some lovely people…” Mrs. Crispino fixed Viktor with a sharp look that Yuuri couldn’t quite understand before reaching out to Yuuri to beckon him to follow them. First there was a pair of women that, judging from their delighted shrieks upon seeing him, already knew Nikiforov. Nikiforov, on the other hand, was polite but didn’t seem to return the level of excitement. It seemed Mrs. Crispino was trying to find someone in particular; after a few more harried introductions between Yuuri and a handful of guests (and a glass or two of champagne for Yuuri), she found who she had been looking for.

      With a delighted exclamation, she hurried to embrace a woman whose back was to Yuuri and Nikiforov. They clasped hands and the woman allowed Mrs. Crispino to pull her over and essentially present her to the men.

      "This is Sara Crispino, my... sister-in-law," she said. Perhaps Yuuri imagined the pause Mrs.  Crispino took, but he didn't _think_ so. There was something he couldn't read in the glance the women shared, the smile teasing at the corner of Mrs. Crispino’s lips. 

      Miss Crispino was slightly taller than Mrs. Crispino, willowy where Mrs. Crispino was sturdy through the shoulders and hips. She had sleek looking black hair done up in an intricate braid, held away from her face with lilac pins. The purple of the flowers and the purple of her dress further brought out the startling lavender tint her big blue eyes had. She had been studying Viktor, it seemed, but now her eyes met Yuuri's and she smiled. 

      "How do you do, Mr. Katsuki? You know, you're much more handsome than Mila said,"

      A flicker of irritation flared up in Yuuri. Mrs. Crispino hadn't known his _name_ , how could she say if he was handsome or not? He was about to say so, bold from the champagne he'd drunk from the flute he held, when someone touched his back. It was Nikiforov, raising an eyebrow at him, saying something Yuuri couldn't quite make out with those impossible eyes of his. Yuuri got enough of the point, though, and swallowed his irritation. 

      "Miss Crispino, you're far too kind. I only met Mrs. Crispino here for a moment, really,"

      This seemed to be the right thing to say, for Nikiforov's hand was removed from his back. It was consternating, and Yuuri found himself fighting the most peculiar urge to put his own hand on Nikiforov's arm, to keep him close. Ridiculous. 

      Mila was talking to Nikiforov still, throwing her head back and laughing with the intensity Yuuri remembered from that night in the library. Her sister-in-law still hung on her arm, a demure smile on her lips as she watched Mila's animated gestures, obvious fondness in her eyes. 

      From what Yuuri could follow of the conversation, Mila Babicheva had married Miss Crispino's twin brother Michele. They had immigrated from Italy not two years prior; Miss Crispino had attended the same Oxford sister-school as Mila, and apparently Michele couldn't bear to be away from his sister so he'd moved to England, too. It was Miss Crispino that had encouraged her brother and her friend to court. 

      "Really, this _minx_ here is why I'm married," the new Mrs. Crispino laughed, playfully bumping her hip into her sister-in-law and sending her into giggles. 

      Abruptly, Nikiforov switched to Russian. This was a shock not only because Yuuri had never heard his roommate speak in his mother tongue, but also because they were in the middle of a ball in London and this surely wasn’t proper etiquette. Even if he hadn't been so surprised, Yuuri doubted he would've been able to follow the conversation, though he didn't miss the way Mrs. Crispino pulled Miss Crispino a little closer to her and said something back to Nikiforov in Russian without a moment's hesitation, an edge to her voice. Whatever she said to Nikiforov had him coloring pink high on his cheekbones, and to Yuuri's surprise, he stepped away from the three of them with one last utterance in Russian. 

      Yuuri caught his sleeve without thinking this time, kept him from leaving, and for a heartbeat they locked eyes. Then to Yuuri's surprise, the flute of champagne was plucked from his hand and downed. 

      "There’s really no point in staying sober, don't you think?" There was an edge of cynicism to Nikiforov's voice that Yuuri had never heard, and it made his stomach twist. Seemingly to soften his words, Nikiforov smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. Unable to resist the urge, Yuuri’s eyes followed Nikiforov’s retreating frame as he mixed back into the crowd. It was with difficulty that he remembered his manners and directed his attention back to the women at his side.

      Mrs. Crispino exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with her sister-in-law before addressing Yuuri. It seemed that she collected herself quickly; gone was the sharp edge to her voice and once again she spoke in soft English. “I apologize, Mr. Katsuki. Sometimes Viktor can be… difficult. But please, enjoy yourself,” with this, she led Miss Crispino back into the crowd of people.

      It wasn’t so bad, Yuuri told himself, being separated from Nikiforov. It would’ve been ridiculous to trail after him all night. Anyway, Mrs. Crispino didn’t bring anyone else over to introduce, and Yuuri was able to simply sit and observe. It wasn’t unpleasant, to admire the dancing, the music, the glittering chandelier, the many-colored progression of women’s dresses. There were so many people there that he was blissfully inconspicuous – really, the most awkward thing was to decide what to do with his hands.

      As he sat at the edge of a large group of guests, though, he was accosted by Giacometti and Leroy, both exquisitely turned out and claiming to be very pleased to see him again.

      “Wherever have you _been_?” Giacometti demanded, sitting down – uninvited – on the arm of Yuuri’s chair. “We never see you anymore. Why won’t you ever come out with us?”

      “Yes, why don’t you?” Leroy added. “I know a place you’d love, Yuuri,” Yuuri couldn’t help but prickle a little about the way Leroy said his name, like it was a euphemism for something else. It was too familiar of him, presumptuous and annoying. He continued on, “There’s this one girl there …”

      He began to describe the lady’s charms, Giacometti contributing the occasional detail. She was a celebrated skirt-dancer, apparently. One of Leroy’s friends – who Yuuri suspected was really Leroy himself – was so terribly gone on her that he’d almost ruined himself buying her jewelry. Really, he’d probably be marrying the tart if he went on like this…

      Yuuri found it best not to listen to any more of the conversation; instead, he gazed around the room, wondering if it would be utterly unpardonable to simply get up and leave. It was strange, he thought, that he could easily stay up all night at home, but here he was already tired. The crowd had begun to thin – could it be time for supper?

      Leroy broke off suddenly from his story, and Yuuri looked up to see that Nikiforov had wandered over, accompanied by a dark-haired young woman whose pink dress frothed over the carpet like spilled champagne.

      “Hello,” Nikiforov said. “Enjoying yourselves?” he nodded towards his companion. “Miss Yang, these two are Giacometti and Leroy. Don’t ask me which one is which, because it doesn’t matter – they’re both as bad as the other. And this is Mr. Katsuki. He writes poetry.” He licked his lips, meeting Yuuri’s gaze, and Yuuri saw that the red wine had turned his tongue black.

      “They share rooms,” Leroy remarked to Miss Yang. “Dreadful place they’ve got. Isn’t it, Nikiforov?”

      “It’s not too bad,” Nikiforov said in a decidedly nonchalant tone. He seemed almost bored.

      “I don’t know why you stay,” Giacometti interjected. “You got your allowance back ages ago. Surely you could find somewhere better?”

      Nikiforov shrugged. “I’ve hung all the pictures now.”

      “You must have got used to the place,” Leroy said with a smirk, “if it was better than spending Christmas at the Altin’s. They did ask you, didn’t they?”

      “Yes,” Nikiforov said. He did not look at Yuuri – and Yuuri, after a startled moment, stared down at his hands and made an effort to appear caught up in his own thoughts.

      Miss Yang, seeming rather bored, looked between Leroy and Nikiforov. “Is that a waltz they’re playing?”

      It was _not_ a waltz. The tempo, even from the next room, could hardly be mistaken: one-two, one-two, a double iamb, a heartbeat – _I am, I am_. All at once Yuuri found the room, the atmosphere, intolerable. He stood up so hastily that they all stared at him.

      “I’m – not feeling well, I’m afraid,” he said. “I think it might be better if I excuse myself.”

      “Do you need someone to get you a cab?” Nikiforov asked.

      “No, thanks. I’ll be alright.” He made his retreat as best as he could – bowing to Miss Yang without looking at her, ignoring the others, anxious only to be _away_.

      As he moved through the crowd, he realized that he was being watched by Mila Babicheva. She was at the door to the drawing room, fan unfurled, studying him with interest – which, after so many blank, bored stares, he found unsettling. He was almost afraid to approach her to make his apologies.

      “Mr. Katsuki,” she said, “is it possible that you’re leaving? Before supper?”

      “I’m afraid so. I’m much obliged to you for inviting me, but I’m afraid I’ve begun to feel rather ill.”

      “Oh dear, I am sorry.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s your friend gone?”

      Yuuri gestured vaguely toward the room he’d just come from. “Waltzing, maybe.” There was a touch of bitterness in his voice, and he hated it.

      “He seems to be enjoying himself,” she studied his face intently, her wide, dark blue eyes so different from Nikiforov’s.

      “Yes. He’s good at that.”

      She took his hand then, as calmly as if he were a child. “Be careful.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      She frowned, as if puzzled at herself. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Well, _do_ be careful anyway, Mr. Katsuki. It’s good general advice, I suppose. And come see me again, soon. Goodbye.”

      And she was gone. Yuuri wanted desperately to go after her and beg her to tell him what was wrong, to tell him that it was something else she had to warn him about, not what he feared – anything else at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so sorry this is kinda late! I had a busy day and literally just got home, and naturally I didn't have this draft saved or anything, so please bear with me if there are any errors! As always, thank you so much for reading - it genuinely means the world to me.  
> Before I get to the flower meanings, I wanted to share my writing [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/deathbyblondie/playlist/01FYrCPYZgplq05x8aix01) \- it's inspired by the Ernest Hemingway quote "write hard and clear about what hurts".
> 
> Flower Meanings:  
> Lilacs - color denotes meaning, but I've used them here more as a nod to the tradition of wlw sharing violets, which dates back even to Sappho
> 
> If anything seems odd, definitely shoot me a note. In the later chapters there's more period-typical slang/diction used, so I'll include information about whatever I use as I've been including the flower meanings. Believe it or not but a lot of research has gone into this fic lol  
> As always, feel free to come holler at me on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) ♥


	6. The Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor cross a threshold from which they can never return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ﾉ⌒♡*:･。.
> 
> ♡please note the rating shift♡

      He did not take a cab, but walked home instead, hurrying as if it were possible to outpace himself, heedless of traffic and the people he passed. His thoughts followed close at his heels – silly-giddy and dread and self-contempt. He had been a fool as usual; he had spoiled things. It was terrible and he would forever be miserably awkward with Nikiforov now.

      And yet strangely, he wanted to laugh; he was suddenly awake, he wanted to run.

      For the space of two streets, he let himself consider what would happen if it were possible for this to end happily. Well, why not? To pretend would hurt no one but himself. For two streets he thought about it, as he had not had the courage or clarity to do before. _Imagine_ , he told himself, _just for now_ imagine _, don’t hold back. Think the words that will never pass your lips._

       At last he brought his mind to order, reminded himself of how things really stood. His energy left him. He felt cold, wished he had not made the mistake of walking.

      Back home, he found the sitting room chilly and cheerless. The house was quiet. Mrs. Baranovskya would certainly be asleep by this hour. He took the white rose from his buttonhole and threw it away, dropped his new kid gloves and his glasses carelessly on the table. Makkachin watched from the horrible hand-knotted rug, whining softly at Yuuri’s obvious agitation.

      He thought of making tea and instead went to the shelf where Nikiforov’s vodka lived. There was not much left. Yuuri tipped all of it into a glass and sat by the fire, sipped his drink, and tried hard to think of nothing at all. Instead, despising himself, he fell to thinking of his advice manuals. There would be nothing there, of course, to advise one in a situation like this.

      He would have liked to go to bed but had not the energy to stand, much less to go to his room and undress. He sat for the better part of an hour without moving. Then he heard footsteps. The door swung open and Nikiforov staggered carefully in. Yuuri moved – perhaps to stand up, he wasn’t quite sure – and knocked his vodka over. It spilled over the hearthrug. Makkachin barked softly, seemingly in admonition.

      Nikiforov grinned at Yuuri, not even looking away to greet Makkachin. “You’ve done it now. Is that my vodka?”

      “Yes,” Yuuri said. “I’ve finished it,” he added, in case Nikiforov might not have noticed. He turned his face to the fire, then, and wished that Nikiforov would go away.

     Nikiforov moved closer. “Well, since you finished my vodka, the least you can do is make me a cup of tea. I’m very thirsty and slightly drunk. Or slightly thirsty and very drunk – anyway, I want some tea.”

      “Make it yourself. I’m tired.”

     “You _do_ look tired,” Nikiforov agreed. “I thought –“ he broke off, eyes fixed on something in Yuuri’s appearance. Before Yuuri could quite realize what was happening, Nikiforov had reached towards him. “Look.” He plucked something from Yuuri’s hair. A tulip petal. He held it up, brandishing it like a magician at the end of a trick. “How on earth did you-“

      “I don’t know,” Yuuri interrupted brusquely. The sudden closeness, the quickness and deftness of his touch, had been almost intolerable. He looked up at Nikiforov, and this was a mistake – because there was clearly something in Yuuri’s face that shouldn’t have been there, and Nikiforov saw it all.

      Quietly, he said, “Yuuri.”

      Yuuri could not remember, just then, if Nikiforov had ever said his first name before. He wondered whether Nikiforov would grow cold and distant, or simply flee, disgusted – it would be a relief if he would do at least _something_ , for he had not moved, was still staring silently into Yuuri’s face.

      At last Nikiforov leaned over Yuuri’s chair, so that their eyes were level – the iciest blue on warm almond brown.

      “Look,” Yuuri began pointlessly, trying hard to do just the opposite. He swallowed hard, mouth having gone dry.

      “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

      “I –“

     “ _You_ look at _me_.” It was an impossible, forceful whisper. It made Yuuri's stomach quiver and clench. There was a stain at the corner of Nikiforov’s mouth, a dark purple smear of wine. “ _Yuuri_.” He said again, as if it were some kind of charm. They were nose to nose now. He had his hands on both arms of Yuuri’s chair and was leaning precariously forwards, staring into Yuuri’s eyes like they were pools he was trying to dive into. _This will be the end of me_ , Yuuri thought quite distinctly.

      Nikiforov’s face showed misgivings like a mirror. His hands were very cold, and he was afraid too, perhaps, though that would make no difference in the end. He moved closer, the uncertainty in his eyes about to overbalance into something else, and Yuuri shuddered as if a bullet or gilt arrow had finally found its mark. But he did not move away.

      Yes, Nikiforov’s hands were cold, but his mouth was hot where it met Yuuri’s.

 

☀

 

      Rain was falling. It was a little before dawn; it did not seem long since they had stumbled – quite tangled in each other, staggering a little from having been drinking – into Yuuri’s bedroom, toppled onto the narrow bed. It did not seem long since that one awkward moment when they had both hesitated. A cab rattled by outside, brutally ordinary, and Yuuri flinched, hating it.

      But Nikiforov had smiled at him, pushed Yuuri’s mop of dark hair back from his eyes, and that was enough for at least a kiss. Yuuri had heard himself say _Viktor_ , just a sharp exhale and the edge of a soft moan.

       And the look he had given Yuuri when he heard his name spill from his tongue – Yuuri knew that he’d never be able to think of him by any other name.

      Viktor, who was never patient, had knelt before Yuuri slowly, blue eyes locked on brown, had  _moved_ slowly, smiling the whole time. Yuuri, who never hurried, had buried a hand in Viktor’s platinum hair – the other holding tight to the pale expanse of Viktor’s shoulder, had hissed _now, now_. And Yuuri had caught himself a little at that, knowing his grip would bruise and mark, and started to murmur a shocked apology just to have Viktor press feather-light kisses to his thigh and, between them, say “No, it’s fine, it’s good…”

      None of this seemed to have happened long ago, not any of it, and yet it was past and the whole world had changed. Yuuri lay without moving a hairsbreadth away from Viktor, the sheet thrown off of him, the memories warm where they ghosted around him, as if Viktor’s hands and mouth were still roaming over his skin. Surely it would be best to lie forever in the warm quiet, listening to the rain.

      Viktor was stirring a little, mumbling incomprehensibly in his sleep, shifting closer to Yuuri and pressing his face into his chest. Yuuri couldn’t help himself and reached out to trail his fingers lightly over Viktor’s back, between the marks he’d left just hours before and the freckles that he’d been delighted to discover. The light of day was growing outside the window. London mornings were almost always gray and boring; this should’ve been a summer morning from Yuuri’s childhood in Kyushu, with a bright blue sky and the distant call of gulls.

      Outside, the streets were starting to come to life. People were rising for work, getting ready for the day. Makkachin nosed at the door until it opened and padded into the room, probably expecting his breakfast. He jumped up onto the bed and laid down over the tangle of Yuuri and Viktor’s legs with a sigh. Against Yuuri’s chest, Viktor took a deep inhale and opened his eyes. God, the way Yuuri’s chest tightened when comprehension slowly met Viktor’s eyes and his mouth stretched into a sleepy smile! Viktor turned his face a little and kissed the place where his cheek rested on Yuuri’s chest.

      “Good morning, darling,” he yawned, and Yuuri chuckled softly, wonderingly. It felt so familiar, like it wasn’t the first time they’d awoken in each other’s arms.

     “Good morning,” he murmured back, carding his fingers through Viktor’s hair, much more gently than he had the night before. Viktor seemed to think of the same thing, and he smirked. Yuuri blushed, but didn’t stop.

      “What’s the time?” Viktor asked, finally pulling his eyes away from Yuuri to glance towards the window.

      “I don’t know.”

      “No, you never do.” The words might’ve stung, but Yuuri could feel Viktor’s smile as he allowed himself another nuzzle into the hollow of Yuuri’s throat.

      “It’s early, anyway,” Yuuri said.

      Viktor sat up slowly, not caring as the bedsheets slid off of him, and eased himself out of bed. Makkachin was quick to settle into the warm place his owner left. Viktor hummed a little to himself, taking in the scene, and caught Yuuri’s eyes. “We shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Look. Look at the bed.”

      Yuuri looked around him at the bed. “Oh.” They had tried to be careful; they had not been careful enough. The housemaid might assume that Yuuri alone was responsible, or she might not. Yuuri – sensitive, feeling guilty – felt that he could not bear to chance the risk. “What shall we do?”

      Viktor nodded to himself. “Take the sheet off,” he said. “We’ll have to put a new one on.”

      Yuuri sat up finally and rubbed a hand over his face, fighting down the anxiety rising in his stomach. “I don’t know where they’re kept.”

      Viktor was next to him, suddenly, pulling Yuuri’s hand away from his face and saying, “Hush now, darling, it’s alright. Listen. I know where they are; you take these sheets off and I’ll get more from the linen closet. No one will be awake yet.”

      “All right,” Yuuri said with a deep breath, letting his eyes flutter closed when Viktor ran his thumb softly over his cheek.

      “Right,” Viktor said, stepping back from Yuuri (who had to fight down a horrible keen in his throat at losing contact with him). “Where’s your dressing gown?”

      “What?”

      “Well, I can hardly go out like this, can I?” Viktor gestured down at himself, as if it had escaped Yuuri’s notice that he was absolutely naked.

      Yuuri blushed furiously before muttering, “ _You_ can’t wear _my_ dressing gown.”

      “And why not?”

      In spite of himself, Yuuri found himself biting back a laugh. “Why would you be wearing _my_ dressing gown?” Viktor frowned, taking in Yuuri’s words, and Yuuri smirked as realization dawned on Viktor’s face. “You’ll have to get dressed.”

      Viktor complied, grumbling all the same, dressing with haste. Yuuri watched from the bed, equal parts afraid Viktor would catch him watching and unwilling to look away from him. When he was dressed, Viktor opened the door (for it had slid shut most of the way again after Makkachin had let himself in) and stepped out into the hall with such exaggerated stealth that Yuuri found himself chuckling again.

      When Viktor was gone, Yuuri sighed and finally pulled himself out of bed, marveling a little at the new strains and soreness in his muscles. Makkachin watched, now quite comfortable with the whole bed to himself, as Yuuri gathered up his own clothes from the night before. It seemed too much, too tiring, to find anything fresh to wear. His shirt felt clammy and unwelcome against his skin. By the time he was dressed, Viktor was back, a sheet in his hands.

      “Awful time of it,” he said, “Nearly came away with a tablecloth by mistake.”

      “How did you get the lock open?”

      Viktor smiled – a rather wicked version of the heart-shaped grin Yuuri so loved, he thought – and Yuuri had a distinct mental image of Viktor as a naughty, cherubic child, stealing lumps of sugar and spoonfuls of jam.

      “Hmm. Yuuri, I don’t actually _know_ how to make a bed,” Viktor said after a moment. Yuuri looked up to see Viktor biting his lip, and for a moment was tempted to shove him back down on the bare mattress.

      “Neither do I,” he said instead.

      The wicked grin was back with a wink. “In that case, this should be interesting.”

      They worked in semi-darkness, with just the white light of a gray London morning coming through the window. The final result was not as tidy as might be desired, but it would pass muster. Makkachin helped by jumping back onto the bed at the first opportunity he found, which of course led to more barely-suppressed laughter between Yuuri and Viktor.

      “Well, I’d better go back,” Viktor said, after watching Makkachin a moment with Yuuri.

      Yuuri knew this, but it didn’t stop the sudden stab of disappointment, of anxiety, from hitting his chest. “Yes,” he whispered, more of an exhale.

      They stood a little ways apart, but Viktor took a step and closed the distance between them. It felt natural to feel Viktor’s arms around him, to melt into the contact. Feeling bold, Yuuri tipped his chin up and leaned close until Viktor obliged – which really didn’t take much – and dipped his head to kiss him. The action wasn’t rushed, but carefully intense. Yuuri wanted to hold Viktor against him, but knew that it wasn’t fair to ask him to stay any longer.

      “Imagine,” Viktor said softly as they parted, “if someone found me here…”

      They shared smiles at that, but Yuuri felt a sinking feeling when he thought of what it would truly mean if they were discovered together.  It didn’t seem quite fair, to be so close but to have so much holding them apart. The very walls began to seem thin, the curtains translucent. The daylight was full of eyes. All at once, the morning tasted bitter – the alcohol from last night clouding his tongue, his mouth dry. The rain had stopped outside. Yuuri wanted to ask what they could do, but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

      “Mrs. Baranovskya visits her sister sometimes, you know.” Viktor said, smoothing Yuuri’s hair back away from his eyes. “She stays overnight. We could… manage again. If you wanted.” The last was added with raised eyebrows, harried, as if he were afraid Yuuri would shy away. Yuuri instead reached a hand up to place over the one Viktor had on his cheek.

      “Yes. I’d like that.”

      “Good.” He looked back over his shoulder – was someone climbing the stairs? Before bringing his eyes back to Yuuri. “That’s settled, then.”

      “Yes,” Yuuri said again as Viktor began to move away from him. “Good. Thank you.”

      “Thank you?” Viktor repeated, eyebrows raised.

      “I didn’t – I don’t know why I said that. Stop laughing!”

      Viktor didn’t, but he leaned in for another quick peck before moving to the door. The fear was draining a little from Yuuri; things might be alright.

      “Good night,” Viktor was saying, hand on the doorframe.

      “Good night.” Yuuri returned before catching himself, “Morning.”

      Viktor was smiling as he left the room, nodding. Makkachin followed after a moment. Left alone, Yuuri sat down on the newly made bed and looked around the room. The room still felt different, unfamiliar without Viktor, and Yuuri got up and opened the window before returning to sit on the bed. The noise from the street was loud and unpleasant. In spite of it, Yuuri felt his eyelids droop, abruptly tired. He knew better than to fall asleep – the future would be complicated and perhaps frightening; there were things to think over, and this moment now should be preserved for as long as possible. He should stay here for now, for as long as he could.

      It was no use. His head felt thick and empty at the same time. Downstairs, he heard heavy footsteps and the cadence of voices – someone was having a dispute with the milkman. The day had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhh a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read this, left comments, kudos, etc - it means the world. No joke I get really emotional over this chapter so I truly hope it was enjoyed ♡ I know it was kinda a long time coming, lol  
> This is the second shortest chapter of this work, and all the remaining chapters are about 1k longer (so if you prefer longer reads, there's definitely something to look forward to - and if you don't, these chapters are still relatively short so I hope you'll stick around).  
> As always, if you have any questions etc, please let me know! My [tumblr](peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com) is probably the best place to reach me if you have something to say outside of a comment on this work!
> 
> Flower Meanings:  
> white rose - innocence  
> tulips - meaning changes based on color; in general they mean 'fame' but specialized meanings run the gamut from a declaration of (hopeless) love to "you have lovely eyes"


	7. St. Margaret's at Cliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation to holiday in the countryside offers a reprieve from the all too stifling rooms shared by Yuuri and Viktor just in time for Yuuri's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be late but then I went and accidentally closed the tab while editing. :( sorry!! if there's extra typos in here, I really do apologize
> 
> A little angsty at first but mellows out ♥ a mood board for this chapter is [ here](https://www.pinterest.com/deathbyblondie/learning-the-language-of-flowers/)  
> I strive for historical accuracy, so there is some era slang in here that I'll clarify below.

      It was strange, Yuuri would think afterwards, how much time he spent enjoying past unhappiness in the midst of his newfound happiness. It was a kind of delight to rediscover old troubles, his hidden misgivings, the thoughts he had forbidden himself to think before.

      In the first few weeks, the secrecy Viktor and Yuuri kept seemed almost comical; they were players in a private farce. When Chulanont called to check in on his ‘favorite roommates’ and tell them about a promotion he was receiving from the Foreign Offices, Yuuri had nearly reduced Viktor to laughter with one look and a seemingly innocent remark. Of course, it wasn’t very funny after Chulanont had left (with a quip for the two of them to _behave themselves_ that made Yuuri’s stomach drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his toes) and they were alone in the sitting room, acutely aware of the maid in Viktor’s room dusting. If one was hungry or tired, they could eat or sleep unchallenged. To be close to Viktor, to be in the same room, and not be able to touch him – it was _deprivation_.

      Sometimes they would take Makkachin out together. Yuuri was fond of Kensington Gardens – the green expanse was a relief from being indoors, where they would sit and stare across an impassible yard of fabric, all too conscious of the other people in the house. They’d tried to go on as normal, but it was difficult at times. Their conversations would fade into tense silence, and Yuuri would bury his face in his hands, tormented by a waiting that never seemed to end. At least on their walks, their shoulders might touch, they might breathe in cadence, and no one would suspect a thing.

      On one of their walks they stopped to sit on a bench and admire the changing leaves in the park. Makkachin sat between them, and both Yuuri and Viktor were petting him absently. Every now and then their hands would brush, and Yuuri had to fight to keep himself from grabbing Viktor’s hand and holding it for dear life. In spite of himself, he found himself catching Viktor’s eye and asking, “Do you think we could manage again? Soon?”

      And Viktor’s eyes clouded with something distinctly sad and cautious, and it was the upset set of his mouth that hurt Yuuri more than his actual answer – a soft, downtrodden, “No.” Viktor had caught Yuuri’s hand briefly though, just a lingering touch, enough to bring Yuuri’s eyes back to him. “She’s going to see her sister next month, though. I suppose you can wait that long?”

      Yuuri said nothing. His attention had been caught by a lady and gentleman walking past them on the path – not a very attractive or particularly well-dressed couple, there nothing really distinguishable about them other than the way they looked at each other. They had an everyday tenderness that anyone might see.

      Yuuri and Viktor returned home with Makkachin shortly after this; later, as the evening became night and the house grew quiet and still, Viktor edged his chair as close to Yuuri’s as he could and leaned close. In a quiet voice that slowly became broken, he described his idea of how they should spend the nights of Mrs. Baranovskya’s impending absence.

      When Viktor began to exhaust his imagination, Yuuri couldn’t stay still any longer and closed the short distance between them, kissing Viktor hard. Viktor kissed him back, hands finding a careful hold on Yuuri’s thigh and hip around the cigarette he held, but it was only a moment before he pulled back with a groan. “Yuuri, darling, we _can’t_ ,”

      “Look, everyone’s asleep, we could –“

      “No,” Viktor cut him off, his voice as serious as his eyes were fevered. He took a drag on his cigarette. It was so odd, seeing Viktor so cautious. It hurt.

      Yuuri sat back, looking away from Viktor pointedly. “Well, it’s not really fair then, to talk like that. You make it worse.”

      Viktor sighed out a gust of gray smoke and didn’t say anything more. After a few minutes of silence, his hand found Yuuri’s, though, and together they sat and watched the fire.

 

☀

 

      This was how they managed: infinite care and patience, secrecy that quickly lost its comic novelty and began to feel strained. Yuuri was afraid Viktor would grow tired of it, but he did not. In fact, Viktor smiled more – his true smiles, heart-shaped and reaching his brilliant eyes – now than Yuuri had ever seen him before. It seemed like such a magical thing, to catch Viktor smiling at him, seemingly without reason, to know that it had something to do with Yuuri himself. It was enough, more than enough, to think of those tender expressions when Yuuri felt so frustrated he was afraid he might go mad.

      He hadn’t known the language of flowers very well, but because of Viktor he was learning. Viktor had always been fond of keeping flowers around their apartment; now his obsession with them seemed to grow. Yuuri would return home from a walk with Makkachin to find vases of red tulips or carnations in his bedroom. Sometimes there would be a stem of phlox or tuberose laid out over a book he’d left out; Yuuri’s favorite were the ranunculus  blossoms he’d find pressed between the pages of books Viktor knew he frequented.

      In the days in late October before Mrs. Baranovskya left to visit her sister, there were little bouquets of asters tucked around the house. Yuuri would pluck them from where they were nestled between tins of tea and biscuits on the shelf in the sitting room and raise his eyebrows at Viktor in askance; Viktor would wink and say, “ _Patience_ , my dear one.”

      Mrs. Baranovskya was away for a little more than a week, but the hours passed quickly for Viktor and Yuuri.

 

☀

 

      Halfway through November, Mila Babicheva sent a letter addressed to both Viktor and Yuuri asking if they would like to join her and Sara on a holiday of sorts at the Babichev estate outside of London. Michele, Mila wrote, had been called away to business in Austro-Hungary with an old merchant friend and wouldn’t be back in London until the beginning of December.

      By this time, Viktor had told Yuuri the nature of the conversation he’d had in Russian with Mila back at the Crispino’s party. He’d been angry, concerned, because Mila was quite obviously – Viktor thought, at least – flaunting her relationship with her sister-in-law that was definitely _not_ what it seemed on the surface. Sure, the courts of England didn’t prosecute women the same way they did men for homosexual relationships, but Viktor couldn’t help but be worried for his old friend.

      “But what about that night – the night in the library?” Yuuri asked, thinking of Mila in Viktor’s arms with a misplaced flare of jealousy.

      Viktor shrugged. “I’m glad you interrupted us – honestly, I can’t imagine having gone through with it. We were drunk, desperate to find something that would help us fit into society. Mila had just told me that she was going to be courting Crispino – of course, I didn’t know the nature of her relationship with Miss Crispino – and was a bit out of her mind. It was worth a shot, you know? That’s really what every girl has been to me – someone along the road in my search for love.” He looked up from the letter he still held to see Yuuri frowning. “Darling, don’t make such a face! It’s _you_ , you know. All of the searching… it was you I was looking for, always you.”

      Yuuri swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat and reached out to squeeze Viktor’s hand just briefly. Viktor had said it so casually, as if he didn’t know the way he’d rendered Yuuri’s heart full to bursting. With something of a watery smile, Yuuri said softly, “I love you, Viktor.”

      It was the first time he’d said it aloud, and even though he feared someone would burst into the sitting room at any moment, it felt good to say. Viktor’s head popped up in shock, eyes wide, before he broke into a grin. “I love you too, my darling Yuuri.”

      At this, Yuuri couldn’t help but let out a sniffle and let a happy tear fall. Makkachin immediately leapt up from the ugly rug into Yuuri’s lap and licked the tear away. Both Yuuri and Viktor quickly fell into laughter at this; when they were finally able to get a hold of themselves, Yuuri told Viktor to write back to Mila and tell her yes, they’d visit.

      He looked forward to spending his birthday holding Viktor’s hand, unafraid.

 

☀

 

      Naturally, Makkachin was allowed to accompany Viktor and Yuuri to the Babichev’s estate in Kent. Viktor had gone somewhat overboard with the carriage he ordered to take them to St. Margaret’s from the train station; Yuuri was equal parts flustered by the gesture and glad, for having a car to themselves was a great excuse to sit with his body flush to Viktor. It took Viktor a little more time to settle down, to ease his anxieties about being discovered, but once he did the loveliest smile graced his face and Yuuri could positively feel his own heart flutter in his chest. How lucky they were, Yuuri thought, to be in love – even with the tense social viewpoint on men loving men, Yuuri wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It was moments like this – and the way Viktor would look at him on the mornings he awoke still tangled with him, and the way he said _Yuuri_ with reverence like a prayer, and the flowers appearing in his rooms with their secret meanings.

      Travelling took all day; Yuuri knew he should’ve spent the time working on the play he’d promised Viktor, but instead he found himself reading aloud to Viktor from an extremely battered, dog-eared volume of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poems. He looked up at some point during _Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal_ to see Viktor fast asleep. Makkachin slept halfway on his lap, one paw touching Yuuri. Yuuri wondered if he’d ever been this happy. He reached out to brush Viktor’s unruly fringe out of his eyes, and in his sleep Viktor nuzzled into the touch. After a moment, though, Yuuri made himself withdraw his hand and finish reading the sonnet:

_Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves_

_A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me._

_Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,_

_And slips into the bosom of the lake._

_So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip_

_Into my bosom and be lost in me._

☀

 

      The Babichev estate was settled on the white cliffs in St. Margaret’s at Cliffe, Kent, overlooking the English Channel. Yuuri had never been this far out in the English countryside; he looked on everything with an obvious wonder that had Viktor laughing in delight. It felt like a dream, like something Yuuri might’ve written one wistful gray morning away at Oxford.

      Mila and Sara had met the carriage at the front of the house. Both looked lovely, dressed in rich tones that Yuuri hadn’t seen worn outside of social events. Evidently having escaped to the countryside without Michele was celebration enough. The salty wind coming off the ocean below had chapped both their cheeks to a ruddy glow; it should’ve looked sloppy or common, but on Mila and Sara’s grinning faces it was gorgeous.

      When the door was opened, Makkachin immediately bounded from the carriage to jump up on Mila. Viktor looked startled for a moment and started to call after his dog in sharp tones, but Mila waved him back and laughed something melodic-sounding in Russian. A greeting, perhaps, or some light-hearted admonition. Viktor, looking chagrined, called something back in the same tongue (most likely an apology) as he accepted the cabdriver’s hand down from the carriage before waving the cabbie away and turning to Yuuri to help him down himself. Yuuri couldn’t help but bite his lip against a smile.

      While Viktor paid the driver and directed him as to where to move the bags – Yuuri realized Viktor must’ve been here before, which made his stomach twist in jealousy – Yuuri followed the massive poodle over to greet their hostesses. Mila and Sara came down the last few steps from the door to meet Yuuri. By this time Makkachin had gotten over his excitement at seeing Mila again – for the first time in a long while, Yuuri reckoned – and was happily panting at Sara’s heel, apparently unwilling to leave his new friend’s side. Sara smiled at Yuuri.

      “Mr. Katsuki, it’s so lovely to see you again!” and she reached out to grasp his hand between both of hers, a bold motion that took Yuuri by surprise. With a flare of embarrassment, he remembered how short he’d been the night they met… and what had happened later that night…

      He stumbled over his words a bit as he replied, “And you, Miss Crispino, it’s a pleasure,” he turned to Mila. “Mrs. Crispino –“

      Mila cut him off before he could continue. “Oh, really, Mr. Katsuki, you _must_ call me Mila. There’s no reason you shouldn’t, especially seeing as I can’t imagine Viktor calling me ‘Mrs. Crispino’ in this lifetime,” she said the last through a laugh, rolling her eyes.

      Yuuri began again, nodding. “Alright then, _Mila_ – thank you so much for inviting us. It’s so generous of you, really, I’m honored. Don’t know if Viktor mentioned it, but I haven’t been to this part of England before,”

      Mila smirked at the casual way Yuuri dropped Viktor’s name but sounded happy as she nodded and said, “Ah, yes, Mr. Katsuki, it was no trouble, really.” Her eyes moved to a point over Yuuri’s shoulder. “I figured you needed a nice _romp_ outside of the city anyway…”

      It was Viktor that Mila’s words had been directed to; he was suddenly at Yuuri’s side, returning Mila’s devilish smirk. “Really, Mila, you’re _cruel_. Don’t tease the man, he’s not used to your sort; we’ve been over this before.”

      The words were without malice or reprove, though Yuuri felt his cheeks coloring anyway. He could handle Mila just fine, really – it was keeping composed around Viktor that could sometimes be daunting.

      Viktor was reaching out to take Sara’s hand in his now, bringing it to his lips. “Miss Crispino, it’s a pleasure to see you. The open air seems to be doing you well, yes?”

      Sara reached her newly released hand to her cheek – which, Yuuri noted with some interest, wasn’t as pale as he remembered. Was it the November sun or the relentless wind…? But Sara was laughing knowingly, exchanging a glance with Mila. “Ah, yes. I didn’t see much reason to pack on the kind of makeup I usually do for all you pale Londoners,” maybe it was the doe-eyed look Mila was still giving her, for Sara reached out and took her hand before continuing in a teasing lilt, “Don’t have anyone to impress here, anyway,”

      Mila squealed in mock outrage before laughing her agreement, but Yuuri felt the blood drain from his face. He had the terrifying notion that Sara was joking about exactly what he was worried she was – not that it was a big secret, not between the four of them; the transparency was something that he was wholly unused to.

      Viktor, on the other hand, laughed openly. The tension that had been so apparent in his being seemed to have drained away just being in fresh air. “Well, I can’t say that you’re _wrong_ , but you still look a proper bit of frock. I’ve been a bit spoiled, though, living with the jammiest bit o’ jam for so long.” And suddenly Viktor’s hand was coming to rest on the small of Yuuri’s back, and Yuuri found himself checking wildly to make sure the cab driver had left (he had) and shooting Viktor a flustered glare. Viktor just laughed again pulled Yuuri closer with the hand on his side.

      “Oi, pull down the blinds, you two,” Mila laughed, and Viktor tightened his grip on Yuuri even more. Sara, thankfully, broke in then and saved Yuuri from collapsing in a blushing heap.

      “Ah! Mr. Nikiforov, your dog…?” she gestured to the open garden around the house overlooking the cliff’s edge. Sure enough, there was Makkachin. He’d strayed just to the edge of Yuuri’s field of vision, apparently following a scent. Viktor caught sight of him at the same time as Yuuri, and he boldly moved his hand from Yuuri’s waist to take his hand and pulled him after the dog. Mila laughed, and when Yuuri sent a harried glance over his shoulder, Sara was smiling fondly.

      “We’re going to take tea, join us in the parlor later if you’d like,” Mila called. Viktor didn’t stop, just squeezed Yuuri’s hand in his.

      Thankfully Makkachin didn’t run off when he saw that his master was in pursuit; instead, he sat patiently by the rocky outcrop of scrub grass he’d been intently sniffing. Seemingly from nowhere, Viktor produced a leather lead and leaned down just slightly to snap the lead on the poodle’s collar.

      “So, what do you think, darling?” Viktor asked, looking up and holding Yuuri’s eyes. He spoke in a softer voice than he’d used with Mila and Sara, leaning close enough that Yuuri could nearly feel his warm puffs of breath.

      “What do I _think_?” Yuuri repeated, momentarily distracted by the multi-faceted quality Viktor’s bright eyes seemed to take against the gray-blue sky and the sea crashing below. So much blue in the world… Yuuri thought perhaps the color of Viktor’s eyes was the most perfect of all. Unprompted, words from the sonnet he’d been reading to Viktor came back to the forefront of his mind: _Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves/ A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me._

      Viktor was walking again, Makkachin’s leash in one hand and the other holding Yuuri’s, gently pulling him along. Yuuri tried to formulate a proper response as they began picking their way down a path worn into the cliff down to the beach. “It’s quite lovely here – warmer than London, I think – isn’t it? And Mila and Miss Crispino seem happy to have us, which is good. I don’t know them quite as well as you, but they seem to be welcoming, which I appreciate – and they won’t go telling tales about…” his words tapered off. It was hard to find the right thing to say, faced with finding footing on the rocky beach and the knowledge that he was alone with Viktor in a relatively secluded place for the first time in – well, really, ever.

      The latter seemed to be the train of thought Viktor wanted to play on; knowingly he pulled Yuuri closer to him, placed their hands together on his chest. Beneath his hand, Viktor’s heart seemed to be beating faster. Yuuri knew that if Viktor did the same, he’d feel Yuuri’s own heart beating in tandem.

      It was new, this being open with their affection – being _able_ to be open, without looking over their shoulders for prying eyes or waiting for an empty house. It was something that he itched to read about to understand better, something he knew he had to learn on his own. Viktor fixed Yuuri’s glasses where they’d slipped down his nose a little, then let his hands wander down to rest on his hips, one hand still holding Makkachin’s leash, too. The dog sat patiently at their feet, looking between the men with a content expression, tongue lolling as he panted.

      Viktor brought Yuuri’s attention back with a low whisper. “They won’t tell tales, darling. They won’t.”

      Yuuri pulled back just a little against Viktor’s hands, resting his own on Viktor’s shoulders. The wind buffeted their hair; Yuuri knew it would be in vain, but he couldn’t help reaching out and carding a hand through Viktor’s hair. He’d never get over the way the platinum-silver hair felt like silk against his skin. Viktor closed his eyes and raised his chin just slightly, moving into Yuuri’s touch.

      With his eyes still closed, he said in a voice that was definitely a bit husky, “So, you know, if you wanted we could… manage again. If you wanted to.”

      The hint of nervousness in his voice almost had Yuuri laughing. That Viktor Nikiforov, this infuriating, _impossibly_ beautiful specimen of a man was _nervous_ about asking a plain-faced, struggling poet if he’d like to continue the relationship they’d been playing at for a handful of months… Yuuri was smiling when he pressed his lips against Viktor’s. Of course, the kiss was more like two smiles mashed together, as Viktor was smiling, too.

      It was tempting to let the kisses bleed into something more – it had been so long, such a horribly long time since they’d had this freedom – but Yuuri pushed Viktor back with a gentle hand on his chest after a few heartbeats.

      “Viktor? Mila and Sara said they’d have tea. Why don’t we go in…?”

      Viktor had the stupid grin he wore when Yuuri referred to him by name plastered on his lips, and Yuuri found himself planting a peck on his lower lip, just because it was too hard to resist something so tempting. Viktor chased at Yuuri’s lips belatedly, their lips parting with a wet sound that went straight to a place low in Yuuri’s stomach. Viktor was smirking, then, when he replied, “Of course, darling, I can show you the proper way to take tea, the _Russian_ way… and if _that_ doesn’t warm you up, then we can find some other way, yeah?”

      Yuuri wanted to feign irritation and make a quip about Viktor having had Yuuri make him tea almost every night for over a year, but it turned into a flustered squeak.

      They were both laughing when they joined the women in the parlor, cheeks flushed from more than just the autumn wind off the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading!! These chapters have covered a lot of time, but for the next couple we're gonna stay here and mellow (so I have an excuse to shower everyone in love...)  
> come yell at me on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Flower meanings:  
> red tulips - declaration of love  
> carnations [deep red] - "alas! my poor heart"  
> phlox - unanimity  
> tuberose - dangerous pleasure  
> ranunculus - your charms are radiant/you are rich in attraction  
> aster - patience
> 
> Victorian slang:  
> to 'pull down the blinds' is something you'd say to a publically affectionate couple  
> proper bit of frock - "a clever and well-dressed girl"  
> jammiest bit o' jam - "absolutely perfect young females" that is, the cream of the crop - someone who is just the sweetest of all that is sweet


	8. The Drawing Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse not only into Mila's relationship, but some of the shared childhood between Mila and Viktor (much to the delight of their respective lovers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got to have fun integrating some popular Victorian era slang into this piece, so check the end notes if you need clarification ♥♥♥ as always, the pinterest board for this fic lives [here](https://www.pinterest.com/deathbyblondie/learning-the-language-of-flowers/), so feel free to peruse it and kind of get into the head space for this fic ☺
> 
> There's some Russian words/phrases in here; feel free to correct me if I've said something wrong, it's all google translate unfortunately

      Sara touched her face often. Mila knew that she herself gesticulated more than a proper lady ought to, but this was different. She didn’t seem to be aware of the way her fingers would invariably find their way to resting at the corner of her mouth when she was concerned, or to cup her own cheek as she’d laugh. Almost every day, Sara would at some point turn to Mila and exclaim over the state of her light colored gloves, which were usually stained by that point by rouge or lip paint. Mila knew that the _right_ thing to do was remind Sara not to fidget so much, not to trail her fingers round her face so often, but found – selfishly – that she could not.

      It was surely sinful, the way Mila loved Sara’s small, slender hands; loved the way they so elegantly found their way to alight over the cherubic features of her face so thoughtlessly. Far too often, Sara would pause and await a response from Mila, and Mila would have to scramble to find an explanation for why she had been unable to follow their conversation – usually, it was because Sara had a finger nearly tapping thoughtfully away on her lower lip and in response a distracting heat had blossomed in Mila’s stomach.

      It was one of these such occasions that Yuuri and Viktor found their hostesses when they came in with Makkachin from their walk. Mila and Sara were sharing a divan in the drawing room, sitting closer than was generally acceptable in social situations, with Sara telling some story (from what Yuuri understood, about a childhood friend called Emil) and Mila sitting sideways on the divan, leaned in as close to Sara as she comfortably could with her skirts.

      Thankfully, Makkachin bounded into the room before the men did; the ensuing startle this gave Mila was enough to send her shuffling her skirt and settling back into the divan so she wasn’t nearly on Sara’s lap. Makkachin, anyway, took Sara’s lap for himself. Yuuri found him rushing into apologies and halfheartedly ordering the poodle away from Sara (who clutched the poodle close and insisted he was perfectly fine sitting on her). Viktor, on the other hand, still stood frozen in the doorway.

      Yuuri strode into the room about a meter before he realized Viktor wasn’t at his side. Yuuri was nodding a greeting at Mila and Sara, but stopped – with only a small flicker of guilt, because really this was a familiar gathering – to look over his shoulder in concern at Viktor. Viktor let the door snap closed behind him after a moment, as if he hadn’t realized that he no longer had to hold it open for Yuuri by looking him in the eyes.

      “Viktor…?” Yuuri began, cautious because he recognized the wide-eyed shock on Viktor’s face with a stab of uncomfortable déjà vu.

      Viktor didn’t answer; instead, he was directing a tirade of Russian at Mila, though he sounded more surprised than angry.

      Mila waved a hand, as if to brush Viktor’s words aside. “Vitya, don’t be daft. The servants here _knock_ , and anyway, the only one here right now is Olga, who –“ she paused to look up at a clock on the mantle, “is most likely finishing up in the kitchen and going to bed – she’s of a dizzy age, you know. Then she’ll be off to the quarters in the left wing where all the others live, and we’ll have the right wing to _ourselves_. Relax, alright?”

      After a rather tense heartbeat, Yuuri watched the tension release once more from Viktor’s frame. Wearily, almost, he crossed the room to sink down in the high-backed chair between the fireplace and the divan. Yuuri followed, feeling himself relax as well, and took the seat next to Viktor.

      “My apologies, бабa, Sara. I’m used to a full house, I suppose.”

      As if on cue, there was a knock at the drawing room door.

      “заходи,” Mila called. The door swung open promptly and a slightly round older lady entered the room, preceded by a rather large tray with a pot of tea and four teacups. Makkachin raised his head and gave an inquisitive bark – from the surprised huff of breath from the woman, she hadn’t realized that it was a live dog and not a massive pelt on Sara’s lap. With decided composure, she set the tray, which also held a small plate of biscuits, Yuuri noted, on the low table by the divan and nodded to Mila. Mila murmured something to the woman in Russian that was presumably a word of thanks; she poured the tea silently, and with another nod at Mila was gone. Makkachin stepped off the divan (for he was a large enough dog that it wasn’t so much a jump down from Sara’s lap) and followed her to the door, as if to check for dropped biscuits, before returning to lie down between Yuuri and Viktor’s feet.

Viktor seemed to be searching for something on the tray; Mila noticed this and produced a jar of jam – _jam_? Yuuri tilted his head sideways, whatever could Viktor want jam for? – and sure enough, Viktor’s eyebrows raised and he nodded. “Ah, perfect, Mila. Is this the same…?”

      “…jam the Popoviches make and send to Georgi every year? Yes!” Mila smiled, handing Viktor a spoon. Yuuri watched on, confused. Sara seemed to notice this and raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t watched them do this? Ah, this should be interesting, then,”

      “What do you –“

      “ _Yuuri_ , I told you I’d show you the _Russian_ way to make tea, remember?” Viktor said, his heart-shaped grin so wide that the corners of his eyes crinkled up. He’d moved his chair dangerously close to Yuuri’s, and as Yuuri watched, began stirring a lump of jam into his tea. _Jam_. In his _tea_.

      “Viktor?” there was definitely an edge of reproach in his voice. Viktor didn’t seem to mind, though, and handed his cup and saucer to Yuuri (and slipped Makkachin a biscuit, as if the dog wasn’t fed well enough as it was).

      “Try it, it’s good!”

      Yuuri was defenseless against the anticipation so clear on Viktor’s face; he obliged with a careful sip. Surprisingly, the tea _was_ good with jam; it took on a fruity flavor not unlike an Earl Grey (was that a hint of pear in the jam?) that was most welcome in light of the fast approaching winter.

      Viktor had fixed another teacup for himself but still had his eyes on Yuuri. It wasn’t until Yuuri gave him a smile and nod in favor of the tea that Viktor drank his own; immediately he was exclaiming, “вкусно!” and Mila was laughing into her hand at his expression.

      “It’s odd, no?” Sara asked Yuuri, ignoring the quips in Russian Viktor and Mila were now exchanging. She was taking her tea with milk only, apparently.

      Yuuri shrugged, not wanting to come off as rude. “It’s not bad, really. I like jam, I’ve just never thought of putting it in tea.”

      Sara seemed satisfied with this; she set her tea down and smoothed her skirts again and let her eyes wander to Mila, who was gesturing dangerously with her teacup. Yuuri felt vaguely concerned for the thick rug beneath their feet. Anyway, it wasn’t uncomfortable to sit back and listen to the roll of Russian between Mila and Viktor, even if it was a bit rude. After a moment, though, Yuuri felt he had to interrupt.

      “What were you calling Mila an old woman for?” Yuuri asked, fixing Viktor with a raised eyebrow over the rim of his teacup.

      Viktor had to think back a moment to his earlier remark, but laughed. “When did you start picking up Russian, любимый?”

      Yuuri knew he was blushing again, though he had no clue of what Viktor had called him – in front of Mila, no less, who definitely understood! “I didn’t, but it’s nearly same as the Japanese word for an old lady, at least - 婆. What’d you call _me_?”

      Viktor waved his hand in dismissal and was starting to explain his nickname for Mila just as Mila interjected, “Mr. Katsuki, he called you his _beloved_! Oh how _sweet_ , Sara, look, Viktor’s absolutely crushed on him,”

      Viktor looked somewhat chagrined, but didn’t refute Mila’s words. Yuuri was more than somewhat shocked, but he did his best to smile at Viktor and prompt, “You were saying? About calling Mila ‘婆’?”

      Sara was nodding behind Makkachin (who was definitely the most comfortable in the room, having wound up back on Sara’s lap). “I haven’t heard this story, do share,”

      All at once, Mila looked uncharacteristically cautious. She and Viktor held eye contact for a moment before Viktor shrugged. “It’s my brother’s name for Mila, that’s all. Don’t know if you’ve met him, Miss Crispino, but he’s a bit podsnappery these days. When we were all young, though, he had a temper – really, went through a period of what can be called foot-and-mouth disease – and one of his favorite pastimes was trying to ruffle dear Mila’s feathers.”

      “You make him sound worse than he is, Vitya,” Mila admonished, shooting Sara an apologetic sideways glance. Sara shrugged, and surprised Yuuri by sidling closer to Mila on the divan, so they were practically flush.

      “I don’t mind, don’t worry. I like listening to you speak, even about Mr. Nikiforov’s podsnapper of a brother.” She set her tea down on the tray and settled back against Mila, head on her shoulder.

      Yuuri wondered how it would feel to lean against Viktor in the same way, to be able to. He shot Viktor a glance and found him already staring at him, his face impassive. Nonetheless, Yuuri blushed. He didn’t know how to react to Viktor’s gazes of desire, much less his blank faces that could mean any number of things.

      Thankfully, Viktor continued the story, but Yuuri thought his heart wasn’t really in it. He seemed abruptly distracted. “Yes, well, you’ll recall that I come from a family of dancers back in Russia; my mother had Yurotchka and I dancing with the same company she was in from the time we were quite young. Yakov was one of the teachers at the Imperial Ballet where my mother had gone to school; the Popoviches were another family in the company. And so were the Babichevs, that goes without saying.”

      Yuuri found himself nodding, though this was nearly all news to him. What did Viktor mean, that Yakov was his mother’s teacher? Wasn’t he his uncle?

      “Ah, Mila, I didn’t know you danced!” Sara was saying, having pulled back from Mila just enough to be able to look her square in the face. Mila blushed, her cheeks just a few shades lighter than her auburn hair.

      “Yes, it’s been a long time – I was quite young when we left Russia, and I really haven’t danced since. Svetlana, Vitya’s mother, and my own were very close, so I grew up with the Nikiforovs at the ballet. For a while I’d go and see Yakov, but our families drifted apart after we all started going away to school. Yura and I exchange letters, but it’s only Viktor that I see regularly – and even then, it’s not nearly enough,” she shot Viktor an accusatory glare. He shrugged.

      “You probably hear from Yura more than _I_ do. He’s really only bothered to send letters criticizing my behavior.”

      Yuuri felt his stomach flop a little. “What _behavior_?” he asked hesitantly.

      Viktor turned his brilliant eyes on Yuuri and gave him a wide smile. “Just my habits of drinking and debauchery – but it’s been ages since he’s sent some note warning that he’ll go to Yakov. Actually, любимый, most recently he commented that you must be a good influence, because he hasn’t heard any tales about me lately,”

      Yuuri couldn’t help but smile at that (and blush again at the Russian endearment). Sara was smiling, too, and leaned back into Mila and pressed her cheek to her neck. “What was it like?”

      “What was what like?” Mila asked, her brow furrowing over slightly dreamy eyes.

      Sara laughed into her neck and patted her arm somewhat awkwardly. “Dancing! In Russia! With – with Mr. Nikiforov and his fussy brother,”

      Viktor laughed a little as Mila made an obvious effort to compose herself. “Well, as Vitya said, Yura went through a phase of foot-and-mouth disease, which unfortunately began around the same time we moved here, to England. He was particularly upset that I could lift him like a child – which I did fairly often, just to upset him,” she said the last through a laugh.

      “Like a child?” Yuuri repeated, not quite understanding. Viktor was nodding, and Mila stood in a sudden motion, jostling Sara off of her.

      “Like this!” Mila exclaimed, reaching down and scooping Sara off the divan. Sara shrieked in surprise and Viktor burst into laughter. “Yes, exactly like that!”

      Makkachin barked, either in response to Viktor’s laughter or in annoyance at having lost his place on Sara’s lap. How Mila, who was tall but not very broad, could manage to lift Sara (who was taller than Mila, though svelte) so easily, Yuuri didn’t know. It was one of the strangest things he thought he’d ever seen, not at all becoming of a proper lady even in the current day and age, but wildly amusing anyway.

      Mila set Sara down after a moment, but didn’t rejoin her on the sofa. “So Yura took to calling me ‘old woman’, like Баба-яга in the old stories – you know Баба-яга? The witch who eats naughty Russian children?”

      Sara, eyes wide, forcefully shook her head _no_. “My goodness, is that how you keep Russian children in line? Surely it’s no wonder Mr. Nikiforov’s brother has sharp teeth,”

      “Sharp teeth?” Yuuri asked, unable to stop himself.

      “Yes,” Sara nodded, looking serious, “You’ve said he is a podsnapper so naturally he must have fearsome teeth.” Mila smiled and reached out to her, and Sara took her hand after a moment, smiling to match Mila. Viktor exchanged a glance of his own with Yuuri, and mouthed _remind me to mention this to him_.

      “Anyway,” Mila said as she pulled Sara to her feet and effectively into her arms, “I think that might be enough excitement for the night. I know there wasn’t a proper supper, so please feel free to take the rest of the tea and biscuits to your room, and I promise Olga will have a lovely breakfast in the morning.”

      “Room?” Yuuri repeated, and in his mind Viktor was making a quip about Yuuri having turned into the mythological Echo. He’d have to mention that to him later, but now there was something more pressing at hand. Viktor was silent, not meeting his eyes.

      Mila looked unsure, glancing at Sara before meeting Viktor and finally Yuuri’s eyes. “Well, yes. I only had one room prepared – there’s another room, of course, but Sara’s things are in there for appearances, you know, and I didn’t think you two would mind pigging. But please, if that’s not alright-“

      Yuuri cut her off, knowing he was blushing horribly once more. “Never mind, Mila. It’ll be just fine, thank you.” Perhaps he was imagining it, but he could’ve sworn that from the corner of his eye he saw Viktor wink at Mila. Sara was still holding Mila’s hand, a sly look on her face. The group walked to the drawing room door, which opened into a somewhat cramped hall.

      “Sleep as late as you like, and perhaps tomorrow we’ll go into Dover, if that’s agreeable to you both.” Mila said, already starting to edge away from Viktor and Yuuri in the direction of what was presumably their bedroom. Makkachin, the traitor that he was, was following them closely.

      Yuuri, on second thought, didn’t mind too much.

      He was starting to panic a bit; he wasn’t sure what was expected of him, didn’t know how to function without the secrecy he and Viktor had been employing for so many months now. Didn’t know what Viktor wanted, didn’t know what was acceptable and what was not. It was somewhat nerve wracking. But Viktor was placing a hand on the small of his back and leading Yuuri down the hall now, toward a bedroom nestled in the corner. Yuuri was once again reminded that Viktor had been here before, that he’d walked these halls. _With someone else?_ The thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

      The bedroom they had been given for the duration of the stay was furnished with dark wood furniture from the beginning of the century. There were white linens which contrasted cleanly with the mahogany; a vase of dog rose, tuberose, and peppermint perfumed the room. At some point, their luggage had been moved to sit inside the room. Viktor smiled at Yuuri, something soft and reserved just for him, as he pulled his gloves off and dropped them onto the table next to the vase.

      “Do you like the flowers?” he asked, taking Yuuri’s hand in his. Yuuri nodded, too focused on the feel of Viktor’s gloveless hand around his to formulate a proper response. When he forced himself to meet Viktor’s eyes, there was sheepishness there. “I wrote Mila and told her quite specifically what to get. It seems she added the tuberose on her own, but I think it’s a nice touch anyway.”

      Surely Viktor knew that Yuuri had only the barest knowledge of the language of flowers; dutifully he nodded anyway, because nonetheless it was a horribly endearing action. Viktor sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled Yuuri over to follow so he stood between Viktor’s knees. Yuuri tried his best to ignore the heat building in his stomach, tried to keep his breathing even. Viktor smiled, his eyes holding wonder that did nothing to cool the flame building beneath Yuuri’s skin.

      “Shall I tell you what they mean, любимый?”

      Yuuri shivered. Viktor took this as a yes, and took Yuuri’s other hand so he held both on his knees. “The dog rose, the pink – that represents pleasure and pain,” he brought their entwined hands to his face and kissed Yuuri’s knuckles. His hands were shaking just as Yuuri’s were. Yuuri pulled his hand away and rested it on Viktor’s cheek, trailing a thumb over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. There was a hitch in Viktor’s voice when he continued. “The peppermint is for warmth of feeling,” now Viktor was touching Yuuri’s waist, trailing his hand down to rest on his hip. Yuuri leaned into the touch, pressed close so Viktor’s face almost pressed against his stomach.

      Feeling bold, Yuuri took the hand still entwined with Viktor’s to his throat, to the top button of his shirt. It was a bit difficult, but he unfastened the button with one hand and met Viktor’s eyes, silently asking him to continue. With a shuddering breath, Viktor and Yuuri together worked down the buttons. After a moment, Yuuri forced himself to speak.

      “And the tuberose?”

      “Hmm?” Viktor’s eyes were getting unfocused, his cheeks were a delicious pink. Yuuri still had a hand there on the plane of Viktor’s cheek; he moved it now to card gently through Viktor’s platinum hair, to smooth his fringe back behind his ear though it would certainly flop back over Viktor’s eye. “The tuberose. What does it mean?”

      Viktor pulled Yuuri’s shirttails from his trousers before answering, pulled Yuuri just close enough so that he could stretch his neck up and plant a kiss to Yuuri’s sternum. With his lips against Yuuri’s skin still, he began, “It’s a love flower.” Now he was leaning into Yuuri, trailing down the line of his chest with his sharp, straight nose. His upper lip, still against Yuuri’s skin, was pushed up as it trailed against his skin, and Yuuri shivered as he felt the ghost of Viktor’s teeth by his navel. “It represents a dangerous love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! Your comments and kudos really and truly get me through the day. I'm so pleased that this work is being enjoyed; I've had such a lovely time writing it. And we're a week away from the conclusion! I hope you'll stick around to share it with me. ♥  
> My tumblr is [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/); feel free to come talk to me! I really need an excuse to wax poetic about the backstories I've created for this AU lol
> 
> Flower Meanings:  
> dog rose - pleasure and pain  
> peppermint - warmth of feeling  
> tuberose - dangerous love
> 
> Victorian era slang:  
> dizzy age - elder  
> to be crushed on someone - basically means the same as 'having a crush' on someone  
> podsnappery - refers to someone with "wilful determination to ignore the objectionable or inconvenient, at the same time assuming airs of superior virtue and noble resignation." (Andrew Forrester)  
> foot-and-mouth disease - doesn't refer to the actual ailment, but "swearing followed by kicking"  
> pigging - a nonsexual way of saying that you're sharing a room


	9. The Conservatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri enjoy a lazy day, complete with a trip into town where Yuuri makes a very important purchase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, it's a little longer than the others and I did my best to capture the story! There's a [mood board here](https://www.pinterest.com/deathbyblondie/learning-the-language-of-flowers/) for your reference, and flower meanings & Victorian era slang defined below ♥ enjoy!
> 
> Update 11/01 - the last chapter is a little late due to its size; please expect it in about a week!

      There were gulls calling outside the window. For a moment, Yuuri thought that perhaps he was back in his hometown in Kyushu. But it wasn’t his childhood bedroom he saw when he opened his eyes – it was Viktor’s chest, naked and freckled and bruised from Yuuri’s own mouth. _Might as well be home_ , Yuuri found himself thinking. He waited for a blush to heat his cheeks, but it didn’t come. Perhaps it didn’t feel as scandalous to think such loving thoughts because he was just waking up. Perhaps it was because, around or regarding Viktor, all of his thoughts took this tone. Perhaps it was because he was already in _bed_ with Viktor, so what the hell was wrong with _thinking_ about him?

      As if to prove a point to himself, Yuuri reached a tentative hand out to touch Viktor, to trace gently along the prominent curve of his collarbone. There was a rather nasty bite – _did I really do that?_ Yuuri wondered, slightly disturbed at himself – near the point of Viktor’s shoulder, where the freckles intensified across his pale skin. Yuuri loved this, loved the uniqueness of patterns the sun had kissed onto Viktor. Yuuri sighed and let his eyes fall closed, hand resting there on Viktor’s shoulder with the gulls crying songs he hadn’t heard in years.

      “Going back to sleep, darling?”

      Yuuri jumped and opened his eyes again, looking up to see Viktor smirking at him, albeit a little sleepily. “Oh! Viktor. I didn’t know you were awake.”

      Viktor chuckled softly, close enough that his breath ruffled Yuuri’s hair. “любимый, I’ve been awake for ages. You sleep _late_.” Yuuri pushed him away with the hand still lingering on Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor, ever the dramatist, rolled theatrically onto his back. “ _Yuuri_ , you wound me!” he laughed, drawing the middle of Yuuri’s name out in a way that should’ve been annoying but was _definitely_ not.

      Yuuri rolled, too, so he was flush against Viktor, on his stomach while Viktor was on his back. “You’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?” the bite of his words wasn’t there, and a yawn further distorted the quip. Viktor reached down and patted Yuuri’s bottom over the covers as casually as he might pat Makkachin’s head.

      “I love you too, darling,”

      Yuuri squirmed, letting the endearment settle over his shoulders and slink down his spine. “You could have gotten up, taken breakfast. You didn’t need to stay with me.” The comfortable weight of Viktor’s hand on Yuuri’s backside was suddenly gone, and Yuuri turned his head to see Viktor looking not at him but out the window across the room.

      “I probably should’ve left, then. Sorry.”

      “No! No, I like you being here, I just didn’t want to keep you here if you had plans.” Yuuri shifted uncomfortably, not sure how to bring Viktor’s sleepy smile back to him.

      “My only _plans_ ,” Viktor murmured in a measured tone, still looking away so the white early morning light reflected in his eyes like shards of glass, “revolve around _you_. Frankly, we could stay here in this bed – forget going back to London. Let’s stay _here_ ,”

      Oh, what an absolute _ass_ Viktor could be, saying these things though he must know how they made Yuuri’s heart race. Yuuri pushed himself up enough to throw a leg over Viktor and straddle him, hands on his shoulders. “Viktor, you’re terrible. Don’t say something that you don’t believe,” Yuuri said, trying his best to sound cross in spite of the massive grin that was trying to take over his face. Viktor shifted enough so he could sit up against the headboard and his hands found their place on Yuuri’s waist, and Yuuri’s came up to hold Viktor’s face.

      “I wouldn’t dream of it. Do you think Mila would believe it if I told her I’d fallen ill?”

      Yuuri laughed at the way Viktor’s nose wrinkled, the sly look in his eyes. “No, don’t you dare, Viktor,”

      “ _Yuuri_ –“ Viktor started to whine. Before he could build an argument for staying in bed any longer, Yuuri pulled their faces together and effectively stopped him – it was horribly tempting to stay in bed, a tangle of legs and lips and warm bodies; the weakest argument from Viktor would be enough to hold them there. It wasn’t polite to their hosts, though, to hide away in the bedroom for the duration of the visit.

      Somewhat reluctantly pulling away from Viktor – though a few snatched kisses ensued before Yuuri could speak – he explained as much, saying, “Surely there must be something you’d like to do here – perhaps we could take Makkachin on a walk,”

      Yuuri didn’t think Viktor would reply; he was apparently doing his best to give Yuuri reasons to remain in bed. When he did, it was somewhat mumbled, with his mouth against Yuuri’s chest. “It’s a bit chilly, you know, with the wind coming off the water. I don’t want you catching cold like you did last winter.”

      “I’ll be alright, Viktor,” Yuuri tried to roll his eyes but found him squeezing them shut instead as Viktor’s teeth grazed a nipple. Determined to win the argument, though, Yuuri continued albeit in a breathless voice, “Besides, I want to hear the gulls. They remind me of home.”

      Abruptly Viktor was coming up to look Yuuri in the eyes, task of getting Yuuri distracted abruptly abandoned. “You too?”

      “What?”

      “The gulls. I used to hear them every morning in St. Petersburg when I was quite young, walking to the ballet with mama and Yura,”

      “Oh. I didn’t know.”

      Viktor smiled through his messy platinum hair. “Yes. I don’t hear them often, living in London now, but whenever I do, suddenly it’s like I’m a child again.”

      Yuuri nodded. “It’s like that for me, too, I think. My family had an onsen back in Japan – a hot springs. But there was a beach close by, and when Mari and I would walk through town we could hear the gulls. It was something I never really paid attention to until we moved to England.”

      “Because you don’t hear them walking through towns here?”

      Yuuri nodded, and Viktor sat up a little more, enough that Yuuri took the cue to move off of his lap. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s take Makkachin for a walk.”

 

☀

 

      “Had a nice lie-in, then?” Mila asked, looking up from the book she was reading. She and Sara had apparently already eaten; Mila was sat in one of the high-backed chairs by the fire and Sara was standing behind her, running a mother-of-pearl handled brush through Mila’s hair. Yuuri couldn’t see Makkachin, but he could hear the _thump thump thump_ of his tail wagging against the floor. He was aware that his hair wasn’t lying quite flat like it should be (which he blamed on Viktor and a bold-faced lie about needing help tying a tie) and of the time, closer to midmorning than it seemed proper to be showing up for breakfast. For a moment, Yuuri thought of announcing that it was his birthday as an excuse, but decided against it – birthdays had always made him somewhat uncomfortable; he never knew what to say when people wished him well.

      “Good morning to you, too, бабa,” Viktor muttered to Mila, crossing the room in long strides to the breakfast table. “Is there coffee?”

      “Imagine that, Viktor Nikiforov asking for a cat-lap like _coffee_ ,”

      “Mila, I swear –“ Viktor started just as Sara gave a little tug on Mila’s hair, saying, “If you keep that up Olga will be in here telling you to pull the blind down. No need to worry the dog, anyway.”

      Mila looked like she was going to argue, but relaxed as Sara went back to brushing her hair and said to Viktor, “Yes, chuckaboo, there’s coffee. Good morning, Mr. Katsuki, there’s plenty for you, too.”

      “Good morning, Mila, good morning Miss Crispino.”

      Sara was starting a rather complicated-looking braid on Mila, but she nodded and returned the greeting to the men. Makkachin, hearing Yuuri’s voice, came away from where he’d been laying at Sara’s feet and jumped up with his paws on Yuuri’s waist. “Good morning to you, too, Makka,” Yuuri laughed. If Viktor was upset that his dog went to Yuuri first rather than him, he didn’t show it; instead he fixed two cups of coffee at the breakfast table and searched for a newspaper before sitting down. After petting the poodle for a moment, Yuuri went to join him.

      “How was Makkachin?” Viktor asked after a moment, not looking up from the toast he was buttering. Mila smiled, “He was actually quite nice. Our room can be chilly, he’s a great warm dog to have around, you know.”

      “Really? Our room wasn’t cold at all,” Yuuri pondered out loud, and it took a moment for him to reflect on his words and realize why Mila had given such an unladylike snicker. “Oh! I didn’t – stop laughing!” after a moment, though, he had to smile, too, and say, “We were quite comfortable, anyway.”

      “I’m sure, I’m sure,” Mila said, doing her best to regain composure.

      Viktor rolled his eyes and grabbed another slice of toast to butter. “We’re going to take the dog out after breakfast.”

      “Out where?”

      “Out…side? That’s generally what’s meant by ‘going out’,” Yuuri gave Viktor a sharp look, but the man was smiling, quite proud of his joke apparently, and it was infectious.

      “You two are awful. You know if Yakov was here he’d be bright red by now.”

      Viktor laughed, “Yes, his fly rink and all!”

      It was Yuuri’s turn to roll his eyes. He took a piece of toast from Viktor’s plate and turned to Mila. “Why did you ask where we were going?”

      “Oh, there’s a conservatory at the edge of the garden, set into the trees a bit. If you get a bit cold walking Makkachin, you should definitely go in and warm up. You do like flowers, don’t you, Mr. Katsuki?”

      Yuuri’s mind flashed to Viktor’s lip pushed up over his teeth, the way they felt grazing his skin while he told Yuuri the meanings of the flowers in their room. His voice was perhaps a bit strained when he gave Mila confirmation that yes, he liked flowers just fine. He knew that should he look up, Viktor would have a wicked gleam in his eyes. _He’s gone and ruined flowers for me_ , Yuuri thought, though he wasn’t really that upset at the thought.

 

☀

 

      Makkachin ran ahead of Viktor and Yuuri, pulling at the end of his leather lead. Apparently he liked the seagulls, too – he seemed to be trying to catch one. Of course, Viktor kept his dog more or less in check, but every now and then Makkachin would give an especially strong tug and Viktor would stumble a bit, his knuckles no doubt blanched white as he gripped the lead. Yuuri was afraid somewhat that Viktor would lose his grip and the massive poodle would go bounding off into the waves after a gull. It wasn’t as cold as it was in London, but there was a small voice at the back of Yuuri’s mind wondering if Makkachin would have ice frozen into his thick coat should he get wet.

      It seemed the most sensible thing to do, then, for Makkachin’s sake, to take the leash from Viktor. Viktor was surprised but didn’t argue, just watched Yuuri with a growing smile as he reined the large dog back in with apparent ease.

      “ _Wow_ , Yuuri! You’re so strong!” Viktor crowed into the sea breeze. Yuuri could practically hear the heart-shape of Viktor’s smile in his adoring words before the wind whipped them away.

      Yuuri ducked his head, wondering if between the wind and the scarf his blush wouldn’t catch Viktor’s eye. He couldn’t think of anything properly clever to say back, so he nudged Viktor’s shoulder with his own. That seemed to be the perfect response; Viktor hummed contentedly and pressed back. His touch, even though both of them wore layers with jackets over their walking suits, sent a shiver down Yuuri’s spine.

      Makkachin wasn’t pulling so hard at the leash now. The sky had gone a darker gray and the waves crashing onto the rocky beach were all variants of the same cold blue-gray hue. They’d essentially made a loop twice back and forth across the beach; they stood now in almost the same place they’d come the day before upon their arrival in Kent. The house was at their backs and the water stretched out as far as the eye could see. Yuuri pretended the swelling hills of the white-capped waves obscured the view of France, though he knew that logically, the other country wasn’t visible from where he stood. Especially not with his poor eyesight.

      Abruptly, the question came to him. “Darling, why does Mila call you ‘Vitya’?”

      Viktor seemed to take a sharp breath, but when Yuuri glanced at him, he was smiling. “It’s a diminutive – close friends don’t call each other given names, like you Japanese use honorifics.”

      Yuuri was silent for a moment, once more caught up in thought. Viktor didn’t push him, just stood like a painfully beautiful ice statue next to him. He cleared his throat before saying, “So… should I call you anything other than Viktor?” Yuuri remembered the days that Viktor had been only ‘Nikiforov’ to him; he liked these days much better.

      Viktor was smiling again, lopsided and carefully controlled. “Of course I’d love it if you called me _Vitya_ , darling,”

      He didn’t know if it was Viktor or he himself who moved first, but somehow their hands ended up clasped tightly together, pressed close between their thighs as they stood watching the water.

      Yuuri didn’t know quite why, but he felt a bubble of emotion fill his chest. In a voice that wavered just a touch too much, he said, “Vitya it is, then.”

      Yuuri thought that perhaps he could stay here forever, in the trance-like state that came from the endless waves, the cold surrounding them, and the gentle pressure of Viktor’s hand in his that kept him so solidly grounded. Yes, he could stay there forever – but that was before the snow flurries began.

      Makkachin noticed first, jumping straight into the air with a surprised bark from where he’d been sitting close to Yuuri and Viktor. When Yuuri lurched forward with the weight of the dog, Viktor was quick to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him close.

      “I have him, Vitya,” Yuuri said, not bothering to disguise his irritation. Of course he loved Viktor, but he was also proud of his own strength and didn’t want to be thought of as any less capable.

      Viktor didn’t seem to mind; he hummed, pressed a kiss behind Yuuri’s ear, and said, “I know, darling. Shall we go and look at flowers?”

 

☀

 

      The path to the conservatory was lined with rather overgrown, scrubby shrubs and small trees. Their branches dragged across Yuuri and Viktor’s coats, but provided a lovely respite from the endless wind. The conservatory was, as Mila had said, tucked into the trees in one of the back corners of the property. It was a lovely building, the glass walls thick and somewhat warped with heavy gilt iron fastenings between the panels to hold it all together. Yuuri figured it was from the very beginning of the century or even older; the ivy growing along the outside and the vitricolous lichen in some of the glass panels aged the building but didn’t take away from the fantastical beauty of it.

      The door was wrought iron and oak. Yuuri reached it before Viktor and went to open it, but found that it was locked. He shook the door handle for a moment, thinking perhaps it was simply stuck, before dipping his head in frustrated shame.

      “It’s locked. I guess we should go back to the house, then,” he said, turning to Viktor.

      Viktor tilted his head and put a finger on his lips, apparently thinking deeply. “Have you got a hairpin? I was quite good at picking locks back in the day, you know.”

      Yuuri’s mind flashed back to the morning after they’d slept together the first time, the wicked grin Viktor had worn when he came back from the linen closet with fresh bedclothes. “You can’t be serious, Vitya…”

      Viktor raised an eyebrow, as if in a challenge, and took a step forward to get up close to Yuuri. Yuuri’s first thought was to step back, but his back was to the glass and the best he could do was crane his head quite back to he could continue to look Viktor in the face. “I’m serious, Yuuri. When I was younger, I had my hair quite long – you wouldn’t believe the things I could get into with one of my hairpins.”

      “Do you have a hairpin _now_?”

      Viktor winked, leaning in even closer so his breath mixed with Yuuri’s in a cloud between them. “Even better. I have the key.”

      Yuuri blinked at him for a moment before sighing and shaking his head. “You’re a complete ass sometimes, Vitya.”

      “Yuuri!” Viktor whined, and Yuuri was sure that if the ground hadn’t been slushy from the falling sleet Viktor would’ve collapsed dramatically.

      Fixing him with a fond smile, Yuuri reached out and ruffled Viktor’s hair. He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. “It’s bloody cold, darling, why don’t you open the door already?” Thankfully, Viktor laughed at this and nodded, producing the elegant skeleton key from his pocket and fitting it into the lock. Yuuri tried not to stare too much at how lovely Viktor’s fine-boned hands looked wrapped around the engraved metal.

      It only took a moment of Viktor’s muttered cursing in Russian for the door to pop open. Viktor ushered Yuuri and Makkachin in ahead of him. Inside was blissfully warm, the air heady with the scents of a plethora of blooming flowers. Yuuri unfastened Makkachin’s leash before looking up and around at the conservatory. There was a row of smallish fruit trees along one wall which somewhat blocked the light, but not unpleasantly. The gray light that did come in seemed to make everything so much more vivid – the green of the plants, the blue of Viktor’s eyes, even the flowers smelled sweeter here than they ever had in London.

      Viktor gasped when he saw the fruit trees – actually _gasped_. He took Yuuri’s hand in his and all but dragged him between planter boxes to stand at the base of one that was beginning to bear fruit – a lemon tree.

      “Yuuri, любимый, look at these!” he said, reaching up to cup a lemon blossom in a hand still wrapped in a glove. The delicate petals seemed so small, so fine, in his hand. Yuuri couldn’t help but smile.

      “Yes, I see them, Vitya,”

      “Do you know what they mean?”

      Oh, again with the language of flowers. Yuuri shook his head _no_. He didn’t know if he’d remember the meaning of a lemon blossom the next day, but Viktor looked so excited by them that he was more than happy to oblige him in asking, “What do they mean then?”

      Viktor reached into the leaves to pluck a blossom that was already out of sight. Offering it to Yuuri on an outstretched hand, he said, “The lemon blossom means ‘fidelity in love’.”

      Surely he’d only said that to make Yuuri blush. He wrinkled his nose and took the proffered flower, giving it a delicate sniff. “That’s sweet darling, but is that truly what it means?”

      Viktor put a hand over his chest, acting as if he’d been wounded. “On my honor! Come, I’ll tell you more of the meanings of flowers,”

      They were alone in the conservatory, save for Makkachin, who followed at their heels, so it was hand-in-hand that they roamed the rows of planters. Viktor touched each flower gently, turned its face so Yuuri could see it, and whispered its secret meaning. Yuuri couldn’t help but feel like Viktor was being selective with the flowers he chose to show to Yuuri, though he didn’t quite mind. The flower’s meanings sent shivers down his spine. These small purple flowers were milkvetch – _your presence softens my_ _pains_ ; blue violets, _faithfulness_ ; the fragrant Indian jasmine meant _attachment_.

      “What about tulips, like you’ve always kept at home?” Yuuri asked. Viktor’s smile looked almost predatory for a moment, and Yuuri wondered if he, too, was thinking of the way Viktor had plucked a tulip petal from his hair right before their first kiss.

      As if mimicking the memory, Viktor reached out to card his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. “Well, tulips in general mean fame. I’ve always liked them, but my mother especially was quite fond of them. And the different hues have different meanings, too – the red tulip is a declaration of love, and yellow tulips speak of a hopeless love,” he looked away from Yuuri’s face for a moment and seemed to search the conservatory for a moment with his eyes. After a moment, he touched Yuuri’s shoulder and pointed to a table where a planter of two-toned tulips sat. “Variegated tulips like those, you see, say ‘you have beautiful eyes’.”

      Yuuri laughed and pulled Viktor close. “You must’ve made that one up!”

      Viktor gave Yuuri a squeeze, holding him closer still. “No, I promise you, любимый, that’s what they mean! Though you do, you know. You have such lovely eyes, Yuuri.”

      Oh, how this perfect man could say such things so casually! Yuuri’s stomach flipped around in knots, though not unpleasantly so. Viktor’s reverent words made him feel like he could fly. “Vitya, Vitya, Vitya,” Yuuri whispered into the lapels of his coat, letting the new name fall like a waltz, a double iamb, a heartbeat. _Vit-ya, Vit-ya_.

      “Yes, любимый, what is it?” Viktor asked, really more a breath that stirred Yuuri’s hair. He was so close, so warm, so loving.

      Yuuri rocked forward onto his toes so he was more or less level with Viktor. “I love you so much, Vitya,” he said, or at least he thought he did, before meeting Viktor’s mouth soundly with his own. Viktor hummed and followed Yuuri back down when he stood flat on his feet again. Yuuri wouldn’t have minded if they stayed like that forever, but Viktor pulled away before long.

      The funny, guarded smile from earlier was back. Yuuri frowned. “What is it, darling?”

      “It’s just – there’s another name you can call me, too. It’s more intimate, you see, more tender – so not one just casually used. My mother called me by it, sometimes. I wasn’t even thirteen when she died – no one has ever called me by it, even though it would’ve been used by a lover.”

      Yuuri’s stomach felt tight and like gelatin at the same time – had Viktor just called him his _lover_? “And you’d want me to call you that?”

      “Well, to hear you call me ‘Vitya’ is lovely, darling –“

      Yuuri cut him off with a soft peck that rested fully on Viktor’s lower lip. “What is it, then?”

      Viktor smiled, starting to take a breath but cutting it short to grin wider. “It’s Viten’ka.”

      Yuuri kissed him again, as if to taste the name on Viktor’s own lips. Experimentally, he whispered the name back to Viktor as they parted. “ _Viten’ka_.” He was close enough that he felt Viktor shiver. This name was like a part of his heart – Viktor had unwittingly given Yuuri a piece of himself, something that Yuuri swore to himself that he’d keep safe and secret for as long as Viktor would let him.

      “Yuuri, would you do something for me?” Viktor whispered hoarsely, pressed his forehead against Yuuri’s, the closeness making it seem like he had only one perfect blue eye. Yuuri bit his lip against a laugh and raised his chin so his nose bumped against Viktor’s. He sounded so serious – didn’t he feel any lighter, having entrusted Yuuri with the most intimate of names?

      “What is it?”

      Viktor bit his own lip before saying, “Do you remember when we were in the car over here and you were reading me Tennyson poems?”

      “Yes?”

      “There was one you were reading and I think I fell asleep during it, but there’s a line of it that’s been stuck in my head.”

      Hmm. Perhaps Yuuri wasn’t great at remembering the language of flowers, but poetry he could memorize. “What was the line?”

      “’Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;’ – does that mean anything to you?”

      Yuuri couldn’t help but chuckle and give Viktor a peck. “Yes, darling, it’s from a longer poem called _The Princess_. Do you want me to recite it for you?”

      Viktor gave Yuuri a more lingering kiss before nodding his head and stepping back so he could see Yuuri clearly. After a moment, Yuuri took a deep breath and looked up into Viktor’s eyes, and recited:

“’Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;

Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font.

The firefly wakens; waken thou with me.

 

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,

And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

 

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,

And all thy heart lies open unto me.

 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves

A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake.

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me.’”

      Viktor seemed to steel himself up a minute before opening his eyes that had fallen shut as Yuuri spoke. His eyes did seem a bit dewy when he said, “That was lovely. I quite like that poem, I think.”

      Yuuri laughed, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from Viktor’s cheek with his thumb. “I do, too, my Viten’ka. It reminds me of you.”

 

☀

 

      Mila and Sara were in the drawing room finishing a late lunch when Yuuri, Viktor, and Makkachin returned from their walk. They both smiled knowingly when Yuuri presented a small bouquet from the conservatory of flowers carefully chosen by Viktor – oak-leaved geranium, white bellflower, agrimony, and fennel.

      “This is very sweet, thank you dears,” Mila said, taking the flowers, and slipping past them to the door, “I’ll have Olga put them together in the pretty vase your mother gave to my mama so many years ago.”

      Viktor positively beamed at the mention of his mother and, pulling Yuuri by the hand, swept over to the divan to collapse with a satisfied sigh. Yuuri couldn’t help but smile dumbly, his limbs tingling with a contentedness he’d never known. Sara was talking to Makkachin in Italian, a mindless babble to Yuuri’s ears, and the room smelled of tea and parchment and the sweet perfume Mila and Sara shared. He was comfortable to settle back against Viktor’s side and close his eyes, just for a little while.

      Of course, the respite didn’t last long. Mila barged back into the room, loud enough that Yuuri bolted upright and away from Viktor, immediately on edge. Mila was smiling widely, though, and she clapped her hands for attention. “Alright, are you all quite ready to go into town?”

      Yuuri looked over at Viktor, who was still reclined on the divan. “Town? What town?”

      “Dover, of course. It’s not far at all.” Mila said matter-of-factly.

      Viktor shrugged and turned his eyes to Yuuri. “What do you think, darling?”

      Yuuri dipped his head in a nod. “It sounds lovely. The four of us then?”

      Mila nodded, too. “Yes. I’m afraid Makkachin should stay here, though – as well behaved as he is, I don’t think he’d much like to explore Dover.”

      Viktor looked pained for a moment, but reached out to pat the poodle’s head and smiled. “You’re right, he’s much more at home in London.”

 

☀

 

      High Street in Dover was neat and full of activity, but definitely less so than London. In that way, it almost reminded Yuuri of his small hometown in Japan. There were stands selling roasted chestnuts and barkers advertising here and there. Mila had had a good idea, Yuuri thought, when she suggested the venture from the cliffs. It was difficult, though, walking through shops with Viktor so close and being unable to touch him. An ache began to build in Yuuri’s chest, even as he reminded himself that what he did have with Viktor was far more than he’d ever hoped to have.

      There was a small jewelry store at the end of High Street that the four of them went into after Mila pointed out a brooch in the window. Viktor left after only a moment, though, in search of a place to buy cigarettes. Sara trailed after him, mentioning that she’d been in search of a particular brand of cigar that Michele liked. The brooch, after Mila requested to look at it, turned out to miss her expectations, and Yuuri was ready to leave the shop with her when something in the far corner of one of the cases caught his eye.

      There, nestled on a display of crushed velvet, was an assortment of rings. They were all of different sizes, some designed obviously for women – but there were a few that would fit men, too, even if only on the smallest finger. Yuuri’s own hands were wide and somewhat bony; he knew Viktor’s hands were longer and his fingers were squarer. With this in mind, doing his best to keep his voice from trembling, Yuuri asked the store’s clerk to show him those rings. He had a purchase to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, I can't believe that this is the second to last chapter! Thank you so much for reading this far, I'm excited to share the conclusion with you all ♥ I promise we're going to be seeing some more familiar faces AND I'll get to share some more back story - and we'll get an update on that play Yuuri promised Viktor ;)  
> As always, you can reach me at my YOI tumblr [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)!  
> This past week has been rough for me health-wise, and I'm being honest when I say that it brings me great joy to share my work - kudos and comments are bright points to my days!
> 
> flower meanings:  
> lemon blossom - fidelity in love  
> milkvetch - "your presence softens my pains"  
> blue violets - faithfulness  
> Indian jasmine - attachment  
> tulips [variegated] - "you have beautiful eyes"  
> oak-leaved geranium - true friendship  
> white bellflower - gratitude  
> agrimony - thankfulness  
> fennel - worthy all praise/strength
> 
>  
> 
> victorian slang:  
> a 'cat lap' is something that an alcoholic/heavy drinker would consider a weak drink, such as tea or coffee especially in comparison to liquor  
> pull the blinds down - you might tell an over-affectionate couple to 'pull the blinds down' so you didn't have to see all their young love. Here it is being used sarcastically.  
> someone who 'worries the dog' is a bully; in this instance, Sara is warning that Mila is being harsh while joking at the same time that they might upset Makkachin  
> a 'fly rink' refers to a bald head


	10. Mrs. Baranovskya's Drawing Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor is reminded of a promise he made and subsequently forgot; Yuuri finally completes his play. Important questions are asked, with life-changing answers.
> 
> (there's a return to some angst in this one! all with resolutions, though ♥)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late but the final chapter is here! It's twice as long as the other chapters, if that helps at all (lol). Let me know if it lived up to your expectations ;)  
> There's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/deathbyblondie/playlist/2TgBlkhENsfpmhDhfi8FMT) for this work, a [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/deathbyblondie/learning-the-language-of-flowers/), and I have a [YOI tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) for any and all questions or comments you may have.  
> I only speak English and German, so I've relied on google for anything not in English, so if you spot any errors let me know. As always, flower meanings and explanations of slang are at the end. Enjoy!

      Even though they hadn’t stayed long in Kent, it took a few days for Yuuri to settle back into life in London. Mrs. Baranovskya was pleased, as she always was when she hadn’t seen the men in a while, to have them back in their rooms. A week to the day they’d returned home they had dinner with her, sharing what details of Mila’s life that they deemed appropriate with their curious landlady – after all, Viktor had said, Mrs. Baranovskya had known Mila when she was quite young, “and it’s not like we’ll go in and tell her Mila’s a sapphist, anyway”.

      Mentioning Mila invariably led to talk about Viktor’s childhood and the ballet, and mentions of Viktor’s family, Yakov and young Yuri. As the conversation went on, first Mrs. Baranovskya and then Viktor began slipping more and more into Russian. Yuuri found he didn’t mind, though; there was something that lit up in Mrs. Baranovskya’s stern face that was endearing, and he loved every chance he got to hear Viktor speak his mother tongue, though he couldn’t understand it. Out of sight, Yuuri ran his fingers over the rings nestled together in his pocket, wondering for what was surely the hundredth time since buying them when he should present the gift to Viktor.

 

☀

 

      Viktor and Yuuri climbed the stairs to their rooms side by side, close enough to each other that their bodies seemed to move together. Makkachin greeted them in the sitting room, not getting up from where he lay on the pretty little sofa, but wagging his fluffy tail with enough enthusiasm that he knocked a pillow to the floor. Yuuri’s chest seemed to tighten at the sight – Makkachin felt as much his own as Viktor’s. Though his real family were scattered between East Finchley and Kyushu, Japan, Yuuri couldn’t help but feel he’d made a family of his own here in the warm sitting room of Mrs. Baranovskya’s redbrick house.

      A comfortable silence stretched between them, with Viktor settling down in his chair and picking up the book he’d been reading – a somewhat scuffed copy of A.J. Church’s _The Stories of the Magicians_ , borrowed from Yuuri’s collection. Though it wasn’t too late and they were both rather full from dinner, Yuuri set about preparing tea as he had for so many of the nights he’d spent living with Viktor. There was a small jar of jam on the shelf between the tin of biscuits and the tin of tea; it had been a parting gift from Mila when they’d left the Babichev estate. Though initially it was only to be polite to Viktor, who was so excited about sharing his custom with Yuuri, Yuuri found that he quite enjoyed jam in his tea.

      Abruptly, Viktor spoke. “You know, I don’t enjoy this novel as I once did.” It was a statement that generally wouldn’t warrant a following question but, as Yuuri had learned, Viktor would want one anyway.

      “And why is that, Viten’ka?” Yuuri asked, passing him a teacup.

      Viktor preened a little when Yuuri said his name, as he almost always did. Yuuri smiled automatically, even as Viktor was saying, “It’s just that these stories seem so intangible and – stop laughing, Yuuri, of course I know they’re fairytales! I – _Yuuri, please_ ,” Viktor whined, only making Yuuri laugh hard enough that he had to set his tea down and wipe away a mirthful tear from one eye.

      “I’m sorry darling, but you must admit that that was rather funny, please don’t get poked up,”

      Viktor’s jaw slowly unclenched and he smiled softly back at Yuuri. “I was never really one for fairytales, you know, when I was younger,” he began again.

      Yuuri nodded. “I still can’t quite believe that one of your stories for children in Russia involves naughty children being cannibalized by a witch,”

      At that, Viktor gave a rather uncivilized snort and shrugged. “I’ll write to Yakov and see if he has any of Yura’s books from when he was younger – you know Yura is only now seventeen, he’s ten years younger than me? And I suppose you don’t read Russian so you’d have to take my word, but anyway,” Viktor took a sip of tea and cleared his throat, “My mama would read to me when I was quite young, but I suppose you can say that I was disenchanted with them when I realized there were really not any old frogs to aid me when I must ‘go I know not whither and fetch I know not what’.”

      “Beg your pardon?”

      “You know, the story of the hunter whose beautiful wife is claimed by the king, who sends the hunter on dangerous tasks in hopes of him dying, so he himself might marry the wife? But the wife is magical and can turn into a bird?”

      “My goodness, what kind of tales do you have over there?” Yuuri exclaimed.

      Viktor sighed. “My dear nug, I’m happy to tell you, but that’s not quite the point I’m trying to make,”

      Yuuri ducked his head in a picture of apology, but smiled to himself all the same. “Sorry darling, please continue,” he said.

      “My point,” Viktor said, clearing his throat again, “is that now these stories seem far-fetched not because they involve magic of one sort or another in order for the tasks to be completed and the prince to get the princess or whatnot, but because in none of them is there anything described close to the way that you make me feel.”

      The joking responses Yuuri had been formulating disappeared from his mind, and all he could put together in his mind was an overwhelming wave of love and wonderment focused around Viktor. How he had been so fortunate that things had turned out the way they did, Yuuri did not know. He wished, then, that they were back in St. Margaret’s at Cliffe, so he could make love to Viktor right then and there. Instead, he got unsteadily to his feet and slipped over to Viktor, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him a firm, close-mouthed kiss. It only lasted a moment – a moment was all they could afford to steal – but it was comfort enough. Viktor followed Yuuri even as he pulled away, but Yuuri moved back across the room anyway. It wouldn’t do to tease themselves, anyway.

      “I do love you, you know,” Yuuri murmured, looking to the fireplace instead of to Viktor, somewhat afraid Viktor would think that he didn’t anymore. Viktor only hummed, and Yuuri looked over his shoulder after a moment to see Viktor watching him with a smile that was only tinged a little with sadness.

      “I know, Yuuri. I know.”

      The silence returned, as it was wont to do; Viktor returned to his book of fairytales and Yuuri moved to the desk, where the latest working draft of _Finding Agape_ lived. The story had felt to him cumbersome and bulky at first, but Yuuri found now that he and Viktor were doing something more than the bear that the story had become increasingly clear to him. Now it was all a matter of puzzling out the prose, of keeping the story flowing in a straight line instead of getting lost in the currents of his imagination.

 

☀

 

      “Do you remember when we had dinner with Mrs. Baranovskya?”

      Yuuri looked up from _Finding Agape_. Viktor had just walked in with Makkachin, a fresh bouquet for the breakfast table in his arms. It was two weeks to Christmas, and Viktor had been out during the day and walking along Oxford Street more than he typically did. Giacometti and Leroy still came to call, often before they went out for the night, smiling indulgently at Yuuri and gently reprimanding Viktor for his apparent decision to settle down and quit raising hell on London with them. Now he waited patiently as Yuuri blinked a few times, shifting his brain into memories rather than the world of his novel. After a moment, Yuuri nodded.

      “Yes, I do – those flowers are lovely, by the way. What’s their meaning?”

      “No meaning.” Viktor shrugged, crossing the room to place the bouquet in the waiting vase.

      “Vitya, I think that sounds like Kruger-spoof, even to you,” Yuuri said, only halfway embarrassed at the edge in his voice. It wasn’t that he was irritated; he was in the throes of what he hoped was the last draft of Finding Agape, and it had him in a near constant state of agitation. Viktor was smiling sweetly, though, when he met Yuuri’s eye.

      “You’re right, of course. The sweet alyssum,” he indicated the flowers in question, “say you have worth beyond your beauty – which is considerable, I assure you. Pansies are rather vague, that’s these here… the sweet pea mean ‘departure’, though I regret to inform you that I’m not going anywhere. This is just what the florist had for me today, not a larger meaning, I’m afraid.” Viktor finished arranging the flowers and stood back, satisfied.

      “Anyway, the dinner with Mrs. Baranovskya – you remember that we had been talking about my brother and Yakov?”

      Looking back to the careful handwriting filling the pages in front of him and biting his lip so he didn’t say anything too cross, Yuuri said, “No, actually – you and Mrs. Baranovskya ended up conversing mostly in Russian.” When he glanced back at Viktor, Viktor wore a look of shock.

      “Oh. I’m terribly sorry, Yuuri, I don’t even recall switching languages – does that happen often?”

      Yuuri couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Sometimes. It’s really alright, though. It’s – fascinating, I think – to hear you speak in a different tongue.”

      Viktor raised an eyebrow, a wicked smile settling over his face. “Truly? How interesting…”

      “Vitya!” Yuuri laughed, reaching up to push his hair away from his face, which was all of a sudden too warm. Viktor’s mouth stayed curled into a smirk, but his eyes softened.

      “Right, дорогой, I was telling you about my family,” he must’ve heard Yuuri squeak at the Russian endearment, but didn’t acknowledge it. “As I’ve mentioned, my brother – who is also called Yuri, you know, but it’s not quite the same – has wanted to move back to Russia; he wants to dance at the ballet where our mother danced. But Yakov disagrees.”

      “Oh? Why is that?” Yuuri asked, not bothering to inquire more about a man becoming a ballet dancer – if Yuri Plisetsky was anything like his brother, he’d do whatever he set his mind to, no matter what.

      Viktor looked somewhat chagrined. “Well you see, Yakov is always saying to us ‘Svetka wanted you to go to school, Svetka wanted her sons to go to England’ and all this – and naturally, my brother has rebelled and insisted on attending the Imperial Ballet School, which is where our mother became a ballerina (Mrs. Baranovskya, by the way, is quite thrilled about this – she and Yakov taught there, you know). My brother said it was only fair he go because I went to the school, but naturally things were very different – Yakov was still there when I attended – but we moved here when Yura was very young, and I went to Oxford instead of staying on at the Imperial Ballet.”

      “I didn’t know you’d gone to _school_ for ballet, Vitya.”

      “It’s a quite good school, they teach in French as well as Russian, which is actually why _I_ speak French. Anyway, Yura is telling Yakov that he can’t possibly come to university at Oxford because his English isn’t very good. I’d had about a year to acclimate to living in England before attending school, and I had Giacometti to help me with speaking English (I suppose I had Leroy too, but I swear most of the time was spent trying to teach him _proper_ French, not the swill they speak in Canada).”

      “But your brother _is_ here in London, isn’t he?”

      Viktor hesitated before nodding his head in assent. “Yes, he lives here when he is on breaks from school. But now he’s graduated, and Yakov wants him to come to Oxford.”

      “I don’t understand, why isn’t his English alright for Oxford, then? I caught on quickly enough.”

      The chagrined look was back. “Ah. You see, I may have told Yakov that _I_ would tutor Yura in English before he graduated from the Imperial Ballet.”

      The corner of Yuuri’s lip twitched into a smile. “Let me guess, you forgot about your promise?”

      Viktor groaned dramatically and stood, reaching out for the shelf where his liquor lived. Yuuri _tsked_ in admonition, “Darling, it’s not even past noon!” and Viktor slumped back to his seat.

      “You can’t really blame me, though, for forgetting – I think Mila and I were returning from having dinner with Yakov where that whole exchange had taken place when we encountered you in the library.”

      Yuuri’s cheeks warmed. He could almost taste the crushed mock orange blossom and gin in the air – that night was probably forever engrained in his senses. Viktor was watching him expectantly with those same icy eyes. “Yes?”

      “So you’ll help me with Yura, right?”

      How could Yuuri say no when Viktor was looking at him across a lovely bouquet of winter flowers, his eyes gleaming in a way that would put even Makkachin to shame?

      “Of course, Viten’ka.”

 

☀

 

      By the end of the week, arrangements had been made for Plisetsky to visit for tea. Mrs. Baranovskya, hearing the news from Viktor as he delivered a small parcel he’d found some reason to present her with, insisted that they entertain in her drawing room. Though the days before Viktor and Yuuri took lodging with her had evidently been rough, and it was obvious furniture had been sold to make ends meet, the drawing room was still a pleasant space, better suited to visitors than the sitting room upstairs.

      It was agony, waiting for Plisetsky to arrive. Yuuri’s hands itched; Viktor sat adjacent to him, and Yuuri wanted nothing more than to move from his own high-backed chair to sit in Viktor’s lap, to feel the steady inhale and exhale of each calm breath that Viktor took. He was afraid, even, to meet Viktor’s eyes – surely that would be the end to his resolve. So Yuuri contented himself with catching one of the secret rings in his pocket and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

      Both rings were rather old; one Yuuri suspected was a genuine posy ring, and he didn’t know how it had ended up in Dover of all places. It was detailed with crude vines, but inside was inscribed with what Yuuri thought was the real treasure: _mon cœur t’appartient_. Yuuri, though competent in several languages, only knew a smattering of French (definitely not enough to decipher the cramped, medieval style engraving), and took the salesman’s word at it being a romantic phrase. The other ring was set with a stone, just a chip of a dark garnet. Like a posy ring, it was inscribed inside, but the craft work of the ring was more refined than a fifteenth century ring would be. The inscription was in Italian, but Yuuri was able to get an idea of what it meant from his rather extensive education in Latin: _stammi vicino, non te ne andare_ – stay close to me, never leave me.

      Yuuri’s nerves had finally started to settle when he heard the front door open and the faint exchange of voices. It seemed that Mr. Plisetsky had arrived. Viktor, too, had straightened in his chair, and faced the door with a look of carefully polite interest masked onto his face. Yuuri saw through it, though. He saw the nervous way Viktor’s hands didn’t sit quietly, folded together on his knee. He saw the way Viktor kept moving to bite his lip, only to catch himself and run a hand through his hair instead. There was nothing to be done, no way of soothing Viktor’s nerves, though Yuuri longed to. He was almost glad when the drawing room door was opened and their guest was shown in.

      “Mr. Yuri Evgenievich,” the head of household announced, using the patronymic Viktor had told Yuuri his brother hated, flourishing his arm by way of allowing the man with him into the room. Never before had Yuuri had a proper chance to look at Viktor’s younger brother. Viktor and Yuuri stood in one motion to shake hands with Plisetsky, and Yuuri was surprised to find that he wasn’t much taller than Yuuri himself. Plisetsky had the bearing of a man much taller, though; his posture was perfect, and he held himself like he was bound to the earth only by the balls of his feet. There was a sprig of laurel and a small yellow rose through his buttonhole.

      “Mr. Plisetsky, I’m Yuuri Katsuki, pleased to make your acquaintance,” Yuuri said, dipping his head in a polite bow.

      At seventeen, Plisetsky was a decade younger than Viktor, and the last roundness of childhood still showed in his face. Like Viktor, he had a straight, sharp nose and angular cheekbones, though his were somewhat softer. His mouth, though, was less of a heart and more of a plump pucker – and now, it was pulled into a frown. “Another Yuri? There’s not any room for two Yuris here!” his voice was heavily accented, but there was no mistaking his words.

      Yuuri blinked. Plisetsky definitely knew how to get to the meat of things. Viktor, bless him, chuckled and pulled his brother into a hug with one easy motion. “Oh, Yura, you haven’t changed a bit! But never mind, Mr. Katsuki’s name is _Yuuri_ , not _Yuri_.”

      Plisetsky wriggled from Viktor’s embrace like a cat from a dog, and somehow his scowl had deepened. “What’s the difference?” he snapped.

      Viktor grinned broadly, apparently unperturbed by his brother’s venom. “Well, all of it, really! But let’s not worry about that, shall we? How have you been? How is Yakov?”

      A cat-like smirk worked its way over Plisetsky’s face. “He’s _here_ , actually – Lilia suggested they take a walk, so not to disturb us.”

      Yuuri watched comprehension of some unspoken thing light Viktor’s eyes. With his familiar heart-shaped grin, he exclaimed, “Well, would you imagine that! It’s like old times, isn’t it?”

      Plisetsky narrowed his eyes at Yuuri. “No, is not at _all_. In ‘old times’ you lived with me and Yakov, not this… this Японский поросенок!”

      Yuuri recognized the first word in Russian as something related to Japan, but had nothing to go on with the second word other than the sharp intake of breath that Viktor took. It rankled, hearing Viktor’s child brother make obviously rude comments in a language Yuuri couldn’t even understand. Still, Yuuri knew it wouldn’t do any good for him to crack under the sharp green-eyed glare Plisetsky had trained on him.

      “Yura, I demand that you apologize this instant! That is no way to speak – imagine if Mrs. Baranovskya walked in here and heard you.”

      Yuuri murmured, “It’s alright, Vitya,” just as Plisetsky rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest and snapped, “I don’t care what that старушка thinks,”

      Viktor mirrored his brother, crossing his arms and shooting an exasperated glance to Yuuri. “Yes, you do. Anyway, how are we meant to help your English when you keep speaking Russian?”

      “You sound like such an old man, Viktor. You used to be fun, and now you’re so old that you nearly have a fly rink like Yakov.”

      Viktor’s eyebrows shot up, and he turned immediately to Yuuri like a child and asked in a voice an octave higher than normal, “Yuuri, is it true?”

      Yuuri couldn’t help but laugh, reaching out and patting Viktor’s forehead in as casual a manner as he was sure he’d seen Giacometti do. “No, Vitya, you’re not bald.”

      “Хм?” Plisetsky wrinkled his nose and addressed Yuuri properly for the first time. “You call him ‘Vitya’?”

      Yuuri’s stomach tightened nervously. Had he said something wrong, something too revealing? “Well yes – you see, we’ve been sharing rooms for two years now, and Viktor and I are friends, so he suggested…”

      Yuuri’s voice tapered off nervously, but thankfully Viktor jumped in with a wide smile, saying, “I suggested that he call me ‘Vitya’ – it only makes sense, especially because when we see Mila, that’s what she calls me, and that’s what you used to call me, too.”

      Plisetsky only harrumphed, before picking another part of Viktor’s speech to jump on. “Mila? I haven’t seen her since we were _children_.”

      Yuuri wanted, for some silly reason, to interject that Plisetsky was still barely more than a child, but thankfully refrained. Instead, Viktor smirked and said, “Just wait until you meet her husband.”

      “Mila has – _husband_? Муж?” Plisetsky held his head to the side, wrinkling his nose again.

      Viktor smiled indulgently at his brother. “She married her … close friend’s twin brother. You’d know this if you wrote her more often, you know.”

      “Ugh, that would be like me marrying Altin’s sister,” Plisetsky muttered, frown deepening.

      “Didn’t you get the invitation to her ball in the spring?” Yuuri couldn’t help but ask. Plisetsky met his eyes, but his gaze lacked the venom it had had.

      “No, Yakov wrote to me and told me about it, but I was still at school. I told him to say I was sick or something.”

      Viktor tapped his lip with his forefinger thoughtfully. “You didn’t want Mila to know you were at the school?”

      “No, I –“ Plisetsky broke off and rubbed the back of his neck, apparently sheepish. “I was afraid she would try to see me dance if I told her I was at Imperial Ballet.”

      “And you’d be embarrassed of that?” Yuuri asked, finally relaxed enough to reach for a teacup. Viktor took it, dropped a lump of jam in, and handed it back to Yuuri.

      “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, pig?” Plisetsky all but shouted, leaning forward to get into Yuuri’s personal space. To Yuuri’s credit, he didn’t drop his tea. Viktor watched silently, and Plisetsky continued, “Don’t be so daft; my mother was _Svetlana Nikiforova_ and I’m one of best dancers that Imperial Ballet has ever seen! I’m better even than Viktor, don’t you forget it.”

      Plisetsky, for all his shouting and cursing, was easy to read. Yuuri smiled indulgently at him and took a sip of his tea before saying, “Don’t you want to try your hand at outperforming Vitya at _Oxford_ , then? Prove that you’re not just the better dancer?”

      Viktor’s face was clouding over slightly, and Yuuri had a feeling that Viktor was struggling not to defend his honor. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut, and Plisetsky nodded to himself after a moment. “You are right. You will tutor me English, then.”

      “Great!” Viktor crowed, reaching out to muss his brother’s hair.

      “Привет, старик! Прекратите это сейчас!” Plisetsky snapped, batting Viktor’s outstretched hand away from mussing his neat blond plait. “Katsuki will tutor me. _You_ can fuck off.”

      Viktor gasped. “Yura! Such filthy language!”

      When Plisetsky stuck his tongue out in answer, Yuuri couldn’t help but chuckle. The brothers were more alike in their melodrama than they seemed to realize. He could get used to having Plisetsky around.

 

☀

 

      Plisetsky would be coming to Mrs. Baranovskya’s home twice a week so Yuuri could tutor him in English. _Agape_ still sat tucked into the desk in the sitting room, so close to being finished – but Yuuri forced it from his mind. Teaching Plisetsky was what mattered. And, at the very least, he had Viktor’s obvious gratitude.

      Very early one morning – far too early, in Yuuri’s opinion – Viktor crept into Yuuri’s room to plant soft kisses, still drowsy from sleep, over the lower half of Yuuri’s face, all while making some ruckus about looking for Makkachin. Yuuri had begun to pull Viktor closer just to realize that Viktor’s kisses were not a dream and in fact, it was barely sunrise. He swore sleepily, doing his best to be cross, and pushed Viktor away. Needless to say, Viktor had not decided to surprise his beloved in the early morning again.

 

☀

 

      The first lesson, a week before Christmas, found Yuuri nervously nursing a cup of coffee while watching Plisetsky scowl at Charles Dickens’ _Christmas Carol_. Viktor had taken Makkachin along to meet at Giacometti and Leroy’s club with some remark about Plisetsky being difficult enough, even without the dog to worry. Yuuri had thought that a holiday story might be a good transition into their lessons, but apparently Plisetsky didn’t feel the same way.

      “This is stupid.” He muttered, gruff and garbled by his accent enough that Yuuri at first didn’t realize that Plisetsky had spoken to him. Plisetsky repeated himself, though, and waited. His eyes were too blue a green to really be called the color of absinthe, and they locked unwaveringly on Yuuri’s own mahogany orbs.

      Yuuri cleared his voice before he spoke, looking away. “Alright then, why do you think the play is stupid?”

      “Does it matter?” each word was spat with bitten-off syllables, more challenging than outright combative. Yuuri decided to take a chance.

      “I suppose not. Suppose we reach a compromise, though – you read two acts of Dickens and I’ll… I’ll read you some of my own play.”

      “Compromise?” Plisetsky looked suspicious.

      “Yes – ah, that is, we both give a little.” Yuuri took a deep swig of his coffee to stop himself from stumbling over his words any more.

      Plisetsky reached for a biscuit on the tea tray, even though Mrs. Baranovskya had given him a stern warning about the importance of maintaining his dancer’s figure. “What is _own play_?”

      Yuuri smiled, and Plisetsky’s scowl deepened. “It’s – it’s the play I’ve written.”

      “You _wrote_ one?”

      “Yes – do you remember back when that Oscar Wilde play was at the St. James’? We saw you and Mr. Feltsman there, Vitya and I did.”

      “ _’Mr. Feltsman’_ , ah that sound odd.” Plisetsky said, apparently to himself. When Yuuri stayed silent, waiting for Plisetsky to acknowledge that he did, indeed, remember that night, Plisetsky rolled his eyes and gave a frustrated noise. “Oi, Katsuki! Are you telling story or no?”

      “Oh. Yes, well – Vitya, I think, had called out to you,” Yuuri was suddenly nervous, fussing with his sleeves in the way he knew irritated Giacometti whenever he was trying to recount the previous night’s debauch. “I suppose you didn’t hear him – but that’s quite alright, anyway. Vitya was upset and I – rather spontaneously, actually – told him I’d try writing a play myself. You see, I had been working on a poem… but Vitya held me to my word, so I’ve written a play now.”

      “You wrote my brother a play? Because I ignored him and hurt his feelings?”

      “I – yes, you could say that.” Yuuri felt his cheeks turn what must’ve been a horrible vermillion and went to drink from his coffee cup only to find it empty.

      Plisetsky’s sea green eyes belied nothing. “Next he will go, like English say, ‘in an aromatic faint’.”

      It was so unexpected that Yuuri laughed. “’He’ll go off in an aromatic faint’?” he repeated, still laughing. “I think that’s normally said of women.”

      “Is true, though,” was all Plisetsky said, shrugging. The corners of his mouth were twitching with a suppressed smile.

      “Perhaps it is,” Yuuri smiled back. “Now, read me two acts of Dickens and I’ll read you some of my play. Fair?”

      At once, Plisetsky’s face had returned to a blank mask. He nodded curtly after a moment. “Fair.”

 

☀

 

      Always in the back of his mind was that first rejection, so long ago now, of the poetry he’d submitted to _The Spirit Journal_. The crush of failure was something Yuuri naturally tried to avoid at all costs, but as it became more and more apparent that Plisetsky enjoyed the play, Yuuri was able to push aside the fear and settle into the familiar world he’d created. Reading _Agape_ aloud to Plisetsky proved more helpful to Yuuri than he had imagined. True, he had on more than one occasion read the play to Makkachin, but it was different to watch Plisetsky take in the story. Equally beneficial was the way Yuuri was able to catch the runs in his prose; often he was marking down corrections before even reading aloud to Plisetsky.

      “Why does it matter that the woman cares not for the – what is the word? Suitors?” Plisetsky interrupted Yuuri, brows furrowed in concentration.

      Yuuri didn’t mind Plisetsky asking questions at all; he nodded to himself before answering, “Well, Harriet – that’s the woman’s name – cares more about herself than she does any of the men offering to marry her and give her a fantastic life. She’d rather do whatever it takes to be happy than consider the happiness of another person.”

      “Is that so bad? Caring only for yourself?”

      “I suppose not,” Yuuri frowned, thinking. “But when you close yourself off, you see, you don’t live quite fully. Refusing to care about other people prevents you from living so much more of life.”

      Plisetsky went silent once more, waiting for Yuuri to continue the story. Something had changed in his face, though, and Yuuri caught him more than once mouthing the words Yuuri spoke to himself.

 

☀

 

      “That’s it? That’s the end?”

      “Well… yes?” Yuuri’s voice pulled up at the end, making the answer more of a question itself. Though he’d become quite accustomed to Plisetsky’s more fiery moods, the scowl Plisetsky wore made him wary. Makkachin whined and pushed Yuuri’s hand with his nose, asking Yuuri to continue petting him. He did, mindlessly, focused on Plisetsky.

      “But the – Harriet – she did not marry the man?” Plisetsky looked more surprised than angry, Yuuri decided. All the same, he didn’t want to upset Plisetsky by challenging his understanding of the play, and chose his words carefully.

      “You’re right. She doesn’t marry Charles,” he began.

      Plisetsky cut in, “But what’s the point then? Just makes you feel like shit. It’s sad!”

      Makkachin barked at Plisetsky’s raised voice and Yuuri gave a half-smile. “Yes, it’s sad. The point isn’t to be a love story – it’s about learning how to be selfless with love, how to give even when you don’t know if the love will be returned; how to love with your whole being just _to_ love.”

      “Charles doesn’t love Harriet?”

      “Do you remember the beginning of the play? When you asked what was so bad about only loving yourself?”

      Plisetsky’s eyes seemed to darken as they narrowed suspiciously. “This is good reason to love only yourself.”

      “Why, so you’re never hurt? Oscar Wilde said this once: ‘the very essence of romance is uncertainty’. Love isn’t always something safe and sure. You’re seventeen; it’s fine to not understand. One day you will, though.”

      Plisetsky muttered something in Russian under his breath, not meeting Yuuri’s eyes. Yuuri didn’t press him, just reached for the teapot to top off his cup. As he stirred jam into his tea, though, Plisetsky’s gaze was heavy on Yuuri’s actions.

      “He’s got you making tea Russian.” It wasn’t a question, just the flattest of statements.

      Yuuri glanced up to see Plisesky had crossed his arms over his chest, and was slumped back on the sofa in the picture of aloofness. Yuuri cleared his throat nervously, looking away from Plisetsky’s green glare. “Yes. It’s unlike the way I grew up drinking tea with my family, but I’m always interested in learning about different customs.”

      “You don’t just put jam to be polite, though.”

      “Er… no, I don’t. I’ve come to enjoy my tea this way.”

      Plisetsky’s face had become a blank mask, much like Viktor’s was wont to do when he was deep in thought. Yuuri didn’t press to find out what was wrong; instead, he rose and took the play over to the sitting room desk and pulled out a thick green ribbon. He was binding the play into a neat parcel, having decided that this was the best time of any to send his play off to see if it might be published, when Plisetsky spoke. At first, Yuuri couldn’t quite make out Plisetsky’s soft words, but they sent a chill down his spine all the same. Without turning around, he asked Plisetsky to repeat himself in a trembling voice.

      “You love him. My brother.”

      “You’re mistaken, that’s not true,” Yuuri said as he whirled around to face Plisetsky, hearing the desperation in his own voice and hating it. He heard footsteps on the stairs and felt faint, certain that it was Mrs. Baranovskya come to throw him out of the house, or worse, to the police. He was relieved and afraid at once when it was Viktor at the door. Makkachin rushed to greet him, and Viktor laughed.

      “Hello!” he said cheerfully, a wide heart-shaped smile in place. The smile melted off his face, though, at the palpable tension between his brother and Yuuri. “What’s wrong?”

      Plisetsky met his brother’s eyes, brows furrowed. He didn’t sound upset when he said, “Katsuki is in love with you, did you know?”

      Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to try and refute Plisetsky’s words. Instead, he looked to Viktor and did his best not to cry.

      Viktor had raised his eyebrows, a bouquet – honeywort, sage, and hellebores – hanging limply from his hand at his side. No one spoke for a moment before Viktor shut the door and stepped properly into the room, passing a bottle of what appeared to be champagne to his brother to set on the table. “Yes, I knew, Yura. But only because it’s _me_ who is in love with _him_.”

      Plisetsky’s mouth opened with a soft pop. “You – you’re – you love him?”

      “Of course I do, but I’d thank you kindly to lower your voice.” Viktor said, sounding as calm as Yuuri thought he’d ever heard him. Numbly, he sat down in the desk chair, aware that he was trembling. Viktor was walking across the room, putting the bouquet down on the breakfast table and coming to stand next to Yuuri. Plisetsky was watching with obvious shock on his face, though he stood silent and unmoving.

      Viktor touched Yuuri’s shoulder. “What was it that Henry David Thoreau said?”

      In spite of the situation, Yuuri said, “Well, he’d said a lot of things, Vitya.”

      Plisetsky gave a snort of laughter before covering his mouth and staring wide-eyed at his brother and Yuuri. “So… truly you… love… each other?”

      “Yes,” Viktor said softly, fingers tightening on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri smiled, though somewhat watery, and said, “’Say what you have to say, not what you ought. Any truth is better than make-believe.’ – that’s the Thoreau quote you mean, right Vitya?”

      Viktor nodded, eyes still trained on his brother. “Yura?”

      “What?”

      “You can’t tell anyone about this. No one can know – they’ll throw us in jail. It would be very dangerous for us.”

      “I won’t. I don’t give a damn about whatever proclivities you enjoy.” He sat down again on the sofa and Yuuri let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in. Plisetsky wasn’t done, though. “I think Yakov knows,” he said, reaching for a biscuit.

      “What?” Yuuri gasped. The wild, terrible scenarios were playing again in his mind.

      Plisetsky shrugged. “All he cares about is that his _perfect Vitya_ isn’t the wild bachelor he used to be.”

      To their collective surprise, Viktor laughed. “Yes, that sounds right. He used to go so red in the face yelling at me I thought he might die. And I swear, I was telling my Yuuri not long ago that he’s a good influence on me,”

      Plisetsky rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say. If we’re done, Katsuki, I told Lilia I’d visit with her before Yakov comes to take me home.”

      “Yes, that’s fine,” Yuuri said, standing and bowing to excuse Plisetsky.

      Plisetsky was mostly out the door when he stopped and turned to the other men. “See you both for Christmas dinner, then?”

      Viktor looked at Yuuri and smiled, soft and genuine. Yuuri’s answering smile was somewhat watery, but he dipped his head in assent all the same. “Yes, we’ll be there. Have I heard right that Popovich is coming, too?”

      Plisetsky rolled his jade eyes. “Unfortunately. He’s bringing new girl, too.”

      “Naturally,” Viktor laughed, shaking his head. Yuuri was surprised to see Plisetsky crack a smile, turning back to face them and leaning on the doorframe.

      “Yakov is letting Altin visit too. Do you remember him, Vitya?”

      “Are you asking if I remember when he was one of Yakov’s students or if I recall all the times you’ve mentioned him?”

      The scowl was back, but Yuuri could see the smile Plisetsky was fighting. “Fuck you, тупица,” he snapped, showing every ounce of his adolescence. He looked pointedly away from his brother, to Yuuri, and held his gaze for a heartbeat before finally taking his leave. “Good-night, Katuski. See you Christmas.”

      Yuuri and Viktor were silent, listening to Plisetsky’s retreating footsteps on the stairs. They heard Mrs. Baranovskya’s voice; hers and Plisetsky’s apparently went away to the drawing room, for Yuuri could no longer hear them. At the silence, Viktor quickly pulled Yuuri into his arms and held him tightly, tightly enough that Yuuri couldn’t separate his own heartbeat from Viktor’s. In the safe, borrowed haven of Viktor’s arms, Yuuri allowed the anxiety to edge back in; he let himself tremble and tear up because Viktor’s eyes were light and hopeful, and his body was warm and his smile was gentle and true, truer than the mindless words he whispered to soothe.

      “Wait,” Yuuri said, surprised enough to pull away from Viktor, anxieties temporarily forgotten, “what did you just say?”

      Viktor’s eyebrows were raised and his eyes were wide. The afternoon sunlight hit his platinum hair and made it glow like silver. Yuuri felt that it was like a Greek god was speaking to him when Viktor said, “I said a lot of things just now, Yuuri, I’m not sure.”

      Yuuri stepped back into the circle of Viktor’s arms, determination dripping him tight. “True things?”

      “What? You know I can’t lie for my own life, most certainly not to you.”

      Daring, bold in the way he only was with Viktor, Yuuri grabbed Viktor’s tie and pulled him closer so his words, spoken in a breathless whisper, were loud and clear. “You said that you could never be ashamed of me, that if this was another world you’d have married me, just to show the world you could.”

      Viktor went still, and Yuuri could feel his heartbeat quicken. He held his breath, eyes on Viktor’s, and thought his own heart would explode when Viktor slowly nodded. “Yes, that’s true, every word. Surely you knew that already, though?”

      Yuuri was shaking again, smiling so hard his face hurt. “I know,” he whispered. This surely wasn’t how things were meant to happen, but before he could dissuade himself, Yuuri was pulling the rings from his pocket, holding them in the palm of his hand where Viktor could see them. “I know it’s – it’s not the real thing, and it’s not really proper anyway but… Viten’ka, it’s you, it’s you who meets me where I am, you who I want to be with always, you who has shown me a life I never thought I could live.”

      Viktor plucked the posy ring, the one with the French inscription, and turned it over in his fingers, learning the feel of the engraved vines. “’ _Mon cœur t’appartient’._ It’s true, you know. My heart _is_ yours, fully and forever.” His own hands were shaking as he took Yuuri’s left hand, peeled the glove off, and slipped the ring onto his fourth finger.

      Afraid that if he spoke, he’d sob, Yuuri reached for Viktor’s hand and mirrored the motions, removing his glove and baring Viktor’s left hand. The stone set with the garnet fit Viktor’s fourth finger like it was made for him specifically.

      Viktor smiled down on it, then held his hand by Yuuri’s face. “This garnet matches your eyes perfectly, did you know?”

      Yuuri’s chest ached; he didn’t know if he had ever been so happy, felt so at home anywhere as he did between the softness in Viktor’s eyes and the sound of his voice, between the light hitting Viktor’s stubbled jaw just-so and the smell of roses and cigarettes and coffee that seemed to seep from his pores. Yuuri found himself laughing as tears hit his cheeks, loud and momentarily careless. He flung his arms around Viktor’s neck and baltered with him a moment, whispering his love while Makkachin barked and ran between their feet. Their dance steps were clumsy and disordered, interrupted with laughter and kisses. Mrs. Baranovskya might wonder if her tenants were moving furniture or knocking things from shelves; surely she heard their footfalls from the floor below.

      It didn’t matter in the moment, though; all that mattered was that Yuuri was Viktor’s, just as Viktor would forever belong to Yuuri.

      “When I saw you and Mila that night in the library,” Yuuri whispered, “I told myself that I would make something of myself, because you embodied the level of being alive that I’d always marveled at.” He’d never told that to anyone; it only felt right to tell Viktor.

      Thankfully, Viktor smiled, pressing a kiss to the tip of Yuuri’s nose before whispering back, “I’ve marveled at you from that moment, you know. I really still can’t believe how lucky I’ve been, to have you come back into my life like you did.”

      “Is that why you came in with a flourish, holding the language of flowers over my head?” Yuuri teased, nudging Viktor playfully.

      “Well naturally!”

      Yuuri sat down, out of breath from dancing and laughing. Makkachin settled next to him, head in his lap. “Is it butter upon bacon to mention that I’ve finished the play I promised you?”

      Viktor laughed. “That’s the best birthday gift I could ask for!”

      “It’s your birthday?”

      “Christmas day, my nug! Oh, won’t Yakov be thrilled to see this ring and know I won’t be a twenty-eight year old bachelor?”

      Yuuri smiled though he felt a flicker of concern. “He’ll see it on your fourth finger and think you’ll never marry.”

      Viktor shrugged. “Of course I won’t, I’m good as married to _you_ , love.”

      “I bought these on my twenty-fourth birthday, you know, when we were in Dover.”

      “Twenty-four? Truly? I can hear my brother now: ‘Willie, Willie, wicked, wicked!’ I’d endure it endlessly, though, for you.”

      “I’m glad we understand each other,” Yuuri teased back, patting Makkachin.

       Viktor had a funny smile, suddenly sober. “’Till death do us part.”

      Muddling through the language of flowers, the careful exchanges and waiting for an empty house, the walks in the park – this is what made worth it. Yuuri’s own voice was barely more than a breath, but all the same, he repeated, “’Till death do us part.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally cried editing this. Thank you, from my whole heart, for reading this and leaving appreciation for it - as I've mentioned before, I started playing with this idea in the early summer and only started posting it at the beginning of October, so it's moved relatively quickly on here even though this has been my baby for much longer. I'm not quite ready to let this go yet, so stay tuned for the collection that this will go in - I definitely plan on writing some more victorian era MilaSara and I have a few ideas for drabbles that I'd love to share but that really wouldn't be able to stand alone. I'm playing with the idea of having a short story about the Christmas celebration with all of them posted around Thanksgiving? Who knows though.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you all!♥♥♥♥
> 
> Flower Meanings:  
> sweet alyssum - considerable worth  
> pansies - 'thoughts'  
> sweet pea - departure  
> laurel - glory  
> yellow rose - jealousy  
> honeywort [a seasonal alternative, in this case, to honeyflower, whose meaning is as follows] - love sweet and secret  
> sage - domestic virtue  
> hellebores - scandal
> 
> Victorian Slang:  
> sapphist - slang for a wlw, basically  
> poked up - to become embarrassed  
> Kruger-spoof - untrue; a lie  
> fly rink - a bald head  
> to go off in an aromatic faint - "said of a fantastical woman, meaning that her delicate nerves will surely be the death of her"  
> ‘Willie, Willie, wicked, wicked!’ - satiric street reproach addressed to a middle-aged woman talking to a youth - originates from a somewhat scandalous court case in the late Victorian era involving a landlady suing a young man, her tenant, for not paying her - in his words, this is because she'd act presumptuous/sit on his bed when they spoke

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by Lauren Owen's great gothic novel _The Quick_ with some scenes borrowed (but changed... but the similarities are there). My other main inspiration/reference is a republishing of Kate Greenway's 1884 illustrated guide _Language of Flowers_  
>  I'll also try to link my other references, as this was a fic that I researched a lot while writing!


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